The Great Escape
by Monki-Neko
Summary: The Aftermath is the final blow to an already crumbling society; plagues, rampant killing sprees, a broken economy and an even more broken people-the years that follow that last battle for "freedom" destroys it all. Their world is dying. But there is hope, however faint, of escaping to another...even if it means leaving everything behind. Will it be worth it? No one knows.
1. first contact

**NOTE****:** CAN BE READ BY ITSELF OR IN COMPANION WITH BOOK ONE: STRUGGLE. THIS STORY IS A CONTINUATION OF BOOK ONE: STRUGGLE (AND LATER ON, BOOK TWO: N/A). THIS IS BASICALLY A BONUS STORY AFTER THE "EPILOGUE" AT THE SERIES END (WHICH IS STILL BEING WRITTEN AS WE SPEAK), FOR THOSE WHO WOULD BE INTERESTED IN READING MORE ABOUT THE WORLD I'VE CREATED AND THE LIVES THE CHARACTERS HAVE MADE FOR THEMSELVES.

_BEWARE OF SPOILERS, HOWEVER, AS THIS STORY IS SET YEARS INTO THE FUTURE-AFTER THE WAR AND BEYOND THE AFTERMATH-WHERE THE STORY HAS ALREADY PLAYED OUT AND BECOME LEGEND; WHERE THE CHARACTERS HAVE GROWN INTO THE LEADERS AND CHAMPIONS AND SURVIVORS THEY WERE MEANT TO BE; WHERE THEY HAVE BEGUN TO LIVE A LIFE, TENTATIVELY, SWEARING NEVER TO LET ANOTHER WAR DESTROY WHAT THEY HAVE SO PAINFULLY SALVAGED FROM THE ASHES. _

_THIS WILL INCLUDE: REFERENCES TO EVENTS, INDIVIDUALS AND THINGS THAT YOU MAY NOT KNOW OF; CASUAL MENTION OF MAJOR PLOT POINTS; OOC CHARACTERS, RELATIVE TO THEIR CURRENT INCARNATIONS IN BOOK ONE; INSIGHTS INTO CHARACTERS THAT MAY REVEAL CERTAIN TWISTS, AND SO ON._

IF YOU STILL WANT TO READ THIS, THEN PLEASE ENJOY YOURSELF!

* * *

Headmaster Dumbledore had never, in all his years as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, seen what was taking place in front of him at that very moment. There had been nothing but the barest signs to warn him that anything was amiss; a slight trembling in the stones and a faltering in the wards. Before him in the middle of dinner in the Great Hall it was right on top of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables: colors violently clashed in a swirling eddy as the air around it was saturated heavily in magic.

For precious seconds the Headmaster was as immobile as the rest of the students and staff, watching dumbly in frightened awe but another, stronger spike in the wards prompted him to move. He quickly organized the other members of his staff to shepherd the children against the walls and cast shield spells. He chose a few of his most trusted staff to stand with him in a half-circle facing the vortex, preparing in his mind several of his more powerful spells just in case, as the rest of the staff and the prefects stood ready at the walls.

Just in time for the magic to reach its climax as it curled into a tight ball and lowered to the ground where tables had once stood, now just more protection for the children as barricades hanging suspended from the ceiling. They watched as the lights slowly faded away to reveal a body; it looked human enough with a petite and slim figure dressed in muggle fashion. But looks could be deceiving so they waited for it to show whether its intent was malicious or benign, some more impatiently than others.

The figure stood still with its eyes closed for a few moments, visibly adjusting to the magic of Hogwarts, allowing them to study it more thoroughly. It wore a plain black top and loose bottoms with grey stripes covered in a number of pockets. Only three accessories adorned it in any sign of style; a metal belt with a silver buckle, a leather armband of red and green, and a corded necklace bearing a coat of arms similar to Hogwarts own. The outfit was topped off with steel-toed black boots.

The Headmaster noted that the bottoms it wore were in the style of the American muggle army, the belt it wore emitted a slight but definite amount of magic and that the band it wore to tie its hair back was in the shape of a coiled snake. All troubling signs but none were definite marks of a Dark wizard. And he had spent too long trying to overcome his prejudices against the Dark Arts and Slytherins in general, and mostly succeeding to allow himself to make snap judgments. So he cleared his throat and waited to be acknowledged.

He did not have to wait long for it opened its eyes, took a quick glance around, ignoring the wands pointing at him, and spoke, "Is this Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" It spoke without inflection or tone, neither feminine nor masculine.

"Before I answer yes or no, I think it would be most courteous of you—sir, madam?—to please state your name and purpose for interrupting our dinner." He said politely but firmly.

"You may call me by whatever title you wish, for I am neither male nor female." It paused as murmuring broke out and waited for it to die down before speaking again. "I have no name. I am the Scout and Herald of the Vanguard; sent forth to collect information and determine viability." It said calmly, taking a more thorough look at its surroundings, especially at the students—no, their robes. "Four houses of badger, snake, lion and raven. Adolescent human children in black robes of coordinating colors, respective to Houses. Yes, this is Hogwarts." It nodded to itself, in satisfaction he presumed.

"But surely you must have a name? What do people call you?" He said, desperately trying to process the information and ask pertinent questions at the same time. Luckily, as Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Mugwump of the Wizemagot and Head of the Order of the Phoenix, he had a lot of experience doing so. "For what purpose do you need to collect information; for what reason do you need to determine 'viability'_ for_?"

It blinked. "My Creator refers to me as 'Hagrid' on occasion." Then: "I am unable to completely answer your questions due to matters of security and the laws of travel which theoretically governs alternate realities." He was not the only one to take a sharp breath. Or look at their visitor with a jaundiced and skeptical eye.

He gave a strained smile. He was taken aback by the use of Hagrid's name and the term 'alternate realities'. "You must forgive me, but it is hard to believe you are from an alternate reality. It is more reasonable to say that perhaps you, and whoever it is you are speaking for," he said with shrewd eyes. "Are simply unable to leave your current residence for whatever reason. Or that you harbor malicious intent and seek to confuse us in making such a statement."

"You require proof? So be it. I will make three statements about you, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore that only someone close to you would know." 'Hagrid' cocked its head to the side, as if listening to something only it could hear. "My Creator informs me that it would be wise to place a charm to ensure your privacy. She tells me that these are truths which not even your two closest confidents were ever allowed to know."

A nod toward Minerva indicated who it thought were his closest confidant, though he didn't know who the other it was speaking about, as it had mentioned two.

"She? Does your Creator have a name?" He tried asking, hoping that he could learn more about it but it only stood there, waiting patiently for him to make the next move. Ah, well. He glanced around and noticed that his staff was giving him looks of varying degrees of shock and disbelief. At the information given to them or by the request, he didn't know but he supposed he was about to find out as several started to move toward him. He grimaced. "Please excuse me, it seems my staff has something to discuss with me."

He watched his Heads of House marched toward him. Not entirely surprising, Minerva was the first to speak. "Albus! You cannot be seriously thinking about complying with this request!"

"I must agree, Headmaster, only a fool would trust the word of a stranger. And one who is most likely not even human at that, not that I have much if any prejudice against non-human beings as you well know." Said Sirius Black, Head of Slytherin House. And the headmaster did know, for Black was good friends with Remus Lupin, a known werewolf and the only one of his kind to have attended Hogwarts.

"Black is correct. _I_ certainly have no prejudice toward non-human beings, seeing as I'm the result of a union between goblin and human. But there _have_ been several references made to some Creator; we can make an educated guess that it was created by someone for a purpose and that it clearly does not hold itself to human standards." Spoke Filius Flitwick. Pomona Sprout nodded in support, seeing no reason to repeat what had already been said.

"I understand that you are all rightly suspicious and doubtful of…It's sincerity but I am also a capable wizard and Legilimens. Had there been any malicious intent, Hogwarts would not have allowed it through nor would I not know of such thoughts. I have been continuously scanning its thoughts and I have only found simply instructions."

He didn't mention, of course, that he suspected there were more he wasn't able to discern from its mind but since it had made no harmful actions so far he thought it was less than likely that it'd start now. He motioned to the rest who had kept their wands pointed toward the stranger to put them down. They, student and staff alike, reluctantly put them down but not away. He sighed, suspecting that was the best he could expect of them for the moment.

"So, I am going to put up the privacy charm as suggested and listen to what it has to say. If it speaks truth, we know at the very least whether there might be some merit to the theory of alternate reality. If it speaks untruth, well, I can simply banish them through the wards." He saw that they wanted to protest further but he had made his decision and they would just have to deal with it. "If it makes any of you feel better, you can keep your wands pointed at it." All four did not hesitate to do so.

He turned and walked towards the stranger, stopped a few feet away, cast a simple but effective privacy charm and nodded toward 'Hagrid'.

"You had a sister named Arianna, whom died in the crossfire between you and Gellert Grindelwald—a death you have never forgiven yourself for.

"You may or may not have had a sexual relationship with Grindelwald, but you certainly loved him.

"You own the Elder Wand, one of the Deathly Hallows, which you won from Grindelwald."

He could hear the muted sounds of his staff asking questions and feel their concern, as with each statement it made, his face paled until it was a sickly shade of grey. He dropped the privacy charm and staggered to a chair Minerva transfigured, his head in his hands and wearily hunching forward.

"Headmaster!"

"Albus!"

"Headmaster Dumbledore!"

He let them worry for a little but stepped in when it looked like Black was going to curse it. "No, no, don't. It meant no harm, it only did as it promised; it spoke three truths only someone close to me would have known. The only others are long dead."

"Or imprisoned." The headmaster met its eyes, finding no pity and glad for it.

"Yes," he replied. "I am still not entirely sure of you and yours, but no one else could have known. I can only accept that you _are_ from an alternate reality. The only question now is why you have come here—to Hogwarts, to this reality."


	2. it must be

"_I am still not entirely sure of you and yours, but no one else could have known. I can only accept that you _are_ from an alternate reality. The only question now is why you have come here—to Hogwarts, to this reality."_

He held his hand up his hand as it opened its mouth to speak. "I understand that you cannot speak, 'due to matters of security and the laws of travel which theoretically governs alternate realities', I believe is what you said? However, I am also Headmaster of this school and it is not only my duty but my right to question any stranger who would enter these halls unannounced and unknown. If you cannot answer my questions, then bring to me someone who can or find some way around those limitations."

It cocked its head to the side again, which Dumbledore would almost certainly bet that it w_as_ communicating with its 'Creator' or whoever had sent it in their place. Five, ten minutes past in total silence and several times it opened its mouth to speak but quickly snapped it close. It seemed that 'they' were arguing over his request and it comforted him to know that whoever was on the other side was capable of such a human action. Finally, it spoke: "The Creator understands the position you are in. However, she would like you to know that just as you are responsible for the children under your care and the staff you employ, likewise does she have a responsibility for the people under her protection and leadership.

"Additionally, the laws exist not for our convenience but yours; if certain individuals were to enter a timeline in which a counterpart already exists or enters a timeline before their own, irreversible changes may occur. If such changes occur, they will not always destroy lives but most certainly change them. I have no concept of 'good' or 'bad' but my Creator assures me that the changes will lean toward one or the other, or most often and likely, both.

"There are few exceptions and mistakes are not tolerated, indeed, punishments are quite severe. "

"Punishment…?" He asked, fearing the answer and half-knowing it.

"Death. The Government does not tolerate interference in other timelines or their own. They do not care whether you save a thousand lives or slaughter them. They consider such actions to be unnatural and, as the one who instigates such changes, unnatural by association."

"It seems your government is far more…strict...than our own. We do not even have any concept of travel to alternate realities; we have barely begun research into travel through time."

"Indeed."

"And to answer my request…?" He asked, not sure if he really wanted to hear the answer after finding out why 'they' were so adamant about 'matters of security'.

"My Creator says that she cannot answer any question until knowing how much of an impact her answers will have on your timeline. However, if you answer questions which she has deemed of the utmost importance, then she is willing to answer yours. Yet she cautions you, there is no guarantee."

He nodded, understanding better what was at stake and willing if it meant he might get _some_ answers out of this surreal conversation. "Very well."

"To confirm: Is this Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

"Yes."

"What year is this?"

"1990."

"Did a student named Thomas Marvolo Riddle ever attend your school? If so, what has become of him?"

"Yes, he is my Professor of Defense against the Dark Arts." At this, 'Hagrid' stilled. For several moments, it did not speak. Again 'they' argued as its mouth opened and closed, opened and closed.

Quickly it turned its gaze to the head table, searching for Professor Riddle, presumably, and began asking questions one after the other.

"What were his qualifications? Is he Light, Dark or Grey? Has he declared himself heir of anyone? What is his blood-status? His House? His allies? Enemies?"

Dumbledore answered slowly, making sure of his answers before speaking as it seemed Riddle was important to them somehow and trying to figure out why. "He scored highest on his OWLS and NEWTS, apprenticed for an Auror during his seventh year and knows the subject better than anyone else I've met. I believe he is Light, perhaps Grey. I do not believe he is heir to any magical family, as he is muggle-born but he was orphaned so it is possible that he is the illegitimate child of some pureblood or half-blood. He was sorted into Slytherin but was considered for Ravenclaw. He was fostered by the Diggorys and is allied with both Light and Dark families. I am unsure as to any 'enemies' he may have made or earned, but he does find Cornelius Fudge to be 'distasteful', I think were his exact words."

He watched as it processed the information he gave and then simply continued, "Are either world at war? If so, with whom and why?"

"The Wizarding world has not been at war for several decades since the fall of Grindelwald. There have been a few wizards styling themselves as the new Dark Lord, but they are nothing more than dabblers in the Dark Arts not true practitioners or believers. Nor were any notably powerful.

As for the muggle world—"

"My Creator says, to please use non-magical in place of the term muggle."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "I have no idea. I don't think there are any great conflicts but just to make sure—" He addressed his Muggle Studies Professor and motioned her to come forwards. "Professor Evans?"

Petunia Evans shook her head and frowned, irritatingly pushing stray strands of hair that'd escaped from her French braid back from her face. "Not according to the latest papers and news. There were some 'poll tax' riots in London because of the introduction of new local taxes a few months back. Let's see…there's some excitement about the Channel Tunnel opening in about 2 years, then the World Wide Web created just a year ago by a Tim Berners-Lee, and Margaret Thatcher just resigned as Prime Minister. But other than that…" She shrugged. "Nothing big, really."

She was startled to notice that she was the focus of its attention. It was more than disturbing as those soulless eyes stared at her unblinking. She raised an eyebrow, "Yes, is something the matter?" Just because she was somewhat frightened didn't mean she had to cower away like some little rat-like that rat, Pettigrew.

"You are the Professor of Muggle Studies?"

"Obviously." She couldn't help the sarcastic edge, as she already faced countless numbers of students and staff alike who thought a muggle had no place in the Wizarding world. She had tolerated it because she had expected it from the beginning and knew that she would prove them wrong soon enough. But this was not the parent of a child to impress the importance and benefits of knowing about the muggle world, this was a stranger and she would not tolerate any disdain from this 'Hagrid'. "And yes, I _am_ a muggle—sorry, non-magical person—employed at Hogwarts. Do you or whoever you're speaking for have a problem with that?" She said with a sweetly vicious smile to accompany her words.

The Headmaster looked askance at her but didn't say a word, it was he, after all who started her on this path and he knew it. Besides, he was as curious to know as her.

"If I have offended, I apologize. The Creator did not expect your presence at Hogwarts. You have followed a different path than your counterpart in our reality." It cast its gaze back toward the Headmaster to continue questioning him, but now this 'Hagrid' had made her curious; how different was she in their world?

"Don't you have any questions for me?" She asked. Its unblinking stare turned back to her.

"You are willing?" She waved a hand to show she didn't mind. "Your parents died sometime between the dates of July 31st, 1971 and October 31st, 1981 in a car crash?" At this, her lips pursed but she nodded. "Do you have a younger sister named Lily Evans? If so, is she married to anyone?" Her eyes narrowed but she answered grudgingly, as the answer to this particular question stirred unwelcome memories and managed to remind her of one of the biggest issues that divided the sisters.

"Yes. She is _engaged_ to _Potter_, but hopefully she'll realize what a juvenile, uncouth, bigoted idiot he is and break it off." She spat and gave a feral smile. "I can only hope she wises up and finds _someone_ better." And she already knew who would be the perfect candidate, too; someone who had always been there for Lily, even after she had chosen Potter over him.

"Are you unmarried?" At this, she raised her right hand bare of any ring. "Why did you choose to become the Professor of Muggle Studies?"

"Besides the fact that the curriculum was decades out of date? It's personal. If your 'Creator' or whoever's on the other side wants to know more, I'm willing to speak with them. I think that's enough, don't you?" With that, she returned to her seat at the head table and took out a notebook to make some notes for her class, ignoring the stares from her students who had yet to hear her views on 'Lord Potter'. Her colleagues had already heard quite a few of her rants and so returned their attention to the headmaster.

"…Is Lucius Malfoy on the Board of Governors? Is he head of House Malfoy? Married to Narcissa Black? Does he have a son named Draco?" Dumbledore felt his interest greatly increased at the direction of these questions.

"He _was_ once a prominent member of the Board of Governors, but after a series of scandals he was forced to resign his position. His father is the Head of House Malfoy and it is rumored that the heirship may pass on to another male member of the family because of his disgrace. He was married to Miss Black until she filed for divorce, following a public investigation into his finances concerning funding for one of the self-styled Dark Lords. Yes, he does have a son by Miss Black named Draco who is the most likely candidate as the Malfoy heir."

"What is the status of the following: Bellatrix Black, Amycus and Alecto Carrow, Augustus Rookwood, Barty Crouch Jr., the Lestranges, Fenrir Greyback, Walden Macnair, Peter Pettigrew and Severus Snape?"

"Most are in Azkaban for committing heinous acts against the non-magical and muggleborns or destitute. Fenrir Greyback is a werewolf known for murdering even outside the days of the Full Moon and has yet to be caught. Peter Pettigrew is a Hogwarts graduate living at home. Severus Snape is the youngest Potions Master in England and owns an independent company, supplying potions to medical institutions and the Ministry."

"I ask the same of House Potter, Longbottom and Weasley."

"James Potter is currently Head of the family and engaged to Lily Potter nee Evans as Professor Evans stated. Lord and Lady Longbottom have a son named Neville. Molly and Arthur Weasley have six children named Bill, Charlie, Fred and George, Ron and their only daughter Ginny. I am sad to say that young Ronald Weasley was killed by a rogue Bludger during a Quidditch game." He observed as it visibly processed the information and seemed to have been slightly startled by the last bit he said about the youngest Weasley son.

"The Creator has determined that any changes their presence may make will not do undue damage to this timeline, as it differs from our own in many ways. Indeed, it is almost unrecognizable. We await your questions." It looked at him expectantly.


	3. questions answered

"_The Creator has determined that any changes their presence may make will not do undue damage to this timeline, as it differs from our own in many ways. Indeed, it is almost unrecognizable. We await your questions." It looked at him expectantly._

The headmaster was glad to finally be able to ask questions of his own. "May I know why you asked about those particular people?"

"Some are related through blood or marriage to the stated families. Or are enemies, new and old." That explained quite a few things.

"I see. You called yourself Scout and Herald. Why? Also, why have you been named 'Hagrid'?"

"The scout finds the path and discerns the enemies. The herald speaks for all." It cocked its head to the side; obviously this question was sensitive for some reason. Receiving permission, it spoke. "The Creator once told me that the one named 'Hagrid' was a good friend and protector, who died a warrior's death."

Dumbledore felt shock at his Groundskeeper's death, albeit in an alternate reality, but still. Hagrid was compassionate, a Gryffindor through and through who had never raised his hand to anyone in anger. He couldn't understand why his counterpart would die fighting in battle, which led to his next question. One he should have asked before as soon as he heard the words, 'scout', 'herald' and 'vanguard'—all words associated with war.

"You asked if we were at war, now I ask _you_; are _you_ at war?" He asked sharply, not willing to allow a war from another _reality_ to disturb the hard-won peace of his world.

"No." Before he could continue that line of questioning, it continued. "There was a war several years ago that devastated both the magical and non-magical world. Many Old families were wiped out. The ratio of children to adult are ten to one. The Ministry was destroyed. Hogwarts and many other schools in Great Britain fell only to be re-built again as the last remnants of the Wizarding community, thus we are the Remnant of Hogwarts."

"No…" Cries of shock and denial rang out. "It can't be!" He shushed them all. "And who governs these 'Remnants'? Who leads Hogwarts? What do you do for medicine and education? What about the children? Where is my counterpart in all this, what has he done to help rebuild?"

"Each Remnant is governed by a Clan, different Families who have banned together for survival. The Remnant of Hogwarts is led by the Four, of House Granger, Evans, Black and Weasley. Each Remnant provides their own education as they see fit and medicine is administered through trial and error. Many children were orphaned, are the last of their families or were killed in the Aftermath. Your counterpart died years before the War officially began."

"And the non-magical world, what's happened there?" Professor Evans' voice rang out, shaken but determined. She was one of the few still standing.

"The Prime Minister is nothing more than a puppet for the Underground," 'gangs' Petunia hissed when her colleagues turned to her, bewildered. "The economy collapsed. Unemployment increased by 68%. Many government-funded institutions were shut down, such as hospitals and schools, unless they were able to pay a 'protection fee' to the Boss. And then there was the Plague."

"What plague?"

"The Plague called Pestilence. It spread through the air and water, and attacked anyone under the age of ten. In the non-magical world they-the chilren-were all killed, save a few who were somehow immune. The birthrate declined rapidly and the government began paying couples, or anyone capable, to produce a healthy baby that would live past the age of eleven."

Petunia's eyes closed and she sank slowly down to her knees. Her hands pressed together in her lap and her lips moved without speaking, as if in silent prayer. The Headmaster allowed himself and his staff to calm before he reminded himself that he wasn't done and he still needed some more answers.

"Then your Creator is one of the four who leads Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

"And what does your Creator and the others want, exactly, with our world?"

"A place to rebuild without fear of invasion; a home to raise our Families in peace and security; and a sanctuary for our dead, among other things. If you are willing to accept us, my Creator and another would like to step through the boundary to speak with you and make arrangements."

He looked around, hoping no one would protest as he had already decided to help them in any way they could by the time they were told about the Plague. No one, not even his Heads of House protested. Good, but first…

"Would the Prefects please escort the students back to the dorms immediately, your dinner will be sent to you. Please know that for the moment, it is forbidden to leave your dormitories for any reason. Members of staff, please decide among yourselves who will patrol the castle and grounds. The rest of you may return to your own rooms for some rest."

The shield spells were taken down as students were hustled away and his staff roused themselves to resume their normal routine. More than half decided to return to their rooms, rather than face the strangers who represented a world that seemed like a much darker and distorted version of their own. As soon as the room was mostly empty, he motioned to 'Hagrid' that it was fine to proceed now. He and the remaining teachers watched as it touched the pendant and disappeared only to be replaced by two figures.

One was clearly female, clad in a top that was a tight stretch of cloth over her breasts and a long skirt, topped with steel-toed boots. She was adorned by golden bangles on her right, a leather armband of red and green on her upper left arm, and a collar with what looked like claws attached. Her top left her midriff bare so they could all see the ragged scar which marred it. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail and a bulging satchel hung from her shoulder.

Her companion was dressed in simple black robes that buttoned all the way down the left front side and had a high neckline. The only accessories he wore was the leather armband on his upper left arm of blue and gold, a ring with a black stone and a belt slung from shoulder to hip across his chest. His hair was cut at the shoulders and in his hands he held a velvet purse, perhaps filled with some kind of currency.

They were also both so very young to be one of the leaders of the Wizarding world, but it made sense if the children truly outnumbered the adults by such a large number.

"I assume you"—he glanced at the young women—"are the 'Creator'?"

"Yes. My name is Hermione Jean Granger and this is Draco Black-Malfoy. We lead the Remnant of Hogwarts." She nodded to her companion, who reached into his purse and pulled out a package. "A token to show our good faith and to ensure a productive business arrangement between our two Clans."

Dumbledore moved forward to take the package and examined it. It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and twine. He un-wrapped it to find a book entitled Hogwarts Book of Names, the very book in the Deputy Headmistress' office which listed all the muggleborns, half-bloods, and purebloods set down since their birth to attend the school. "I admit I'm somewhat confused; we already have a similar book. I'm not sure we really need this, though I thank you for your gift." He watched as a familiar smirk graced the young Malfoy boy.

"Oh, we know. But _this_ is a modified version of the book, which not only follows its original instructions but is also designed to note down those who are orphaned or living in 'dangerous' circumstances, such as those being abused, homeless, near death, etc. and sends out an alert to the nearest school official. We would have added a secondary function as a fail-safe to alert a ministry official but we were unsure as to the competency or nature of the Ministry."

His smirk became a grim smile. "We would not have been able to save as many of the children as we have without it. You would do well to accept it and use it."

Dumbledore held the book more securely in his arms, now that he had realized it was more than a 'token'. "I didn't realize….Well. Thank you. This is an unbelievably thoughtful gift. However, I hope you both realize that I am simply the Headmaster of this school. If you were hoping that I would use this information to somehow improve the conditions of such students…I'm afraid, unfortunately, that that is a matter for the Ministry to resolve. It would be beyond my authority to do what is rightfully their responsibility."

He smiled apologetically; hoping they'd understand but was quite startled by the twin looks of contempt directed his way.

"Do not take us for fools, Headmaster Dumbledore. We know well your sphere of influence extends beyond this school, we suspect that as in our world, you are Chief Mugwump of the Wizemagot and the Head of a certain Order?" Granger said, placing a slight emphasis on the word 'Order' and leaving no doubt as to what she was referring to.

"You have not only the resources and the wealth but the influence to take such children into 'protective custody' and ensure that they will have a safe if not happy childhood. Some will not even survive into their eleventh year without intervention. I'm sure you can think of at least _one child_ that might have benefited from being placed in a different environment, not having to deal with being harassed simply for who and what he or she is. So please, don't give me this bollocks about it _not being your responsibility_."

Members of his staff gasped in shock and Minerva uttered very loudly, "Language!"

Malfoy snickered. "I love it when you're angry, you know? It's always so amusing to see some 'powerful' wizard's ego deflate right in front of my eyes." His face sobered quickly until only hints of his previous humor remained. "We expect you to use this as it is meant to be used, otherwise hand it over to someone who _will_."

He cleared his throat. "Ah, yes…If you will please follow me to somewhere where we may speak more privately? I assume there are some sensitive matters that must be discussed before arrangements can be made." Granger and Malfoy agreed and followed sedately behind. "I hope you don't mind if I invite my Deputy Headmistress to attend as well? And a few members of my staff?" Hearing no protest, he continued.

"Minerva, Petunia, Sirius will you follow me? The rest of you can return to your rooms, rest assured I will let you know what has been discussed in a staff meeting later on. Oh, and Professor Vector? Please send someone to fetch Professor Riddle."

'_I think his presence will help explain some things in greater detail our guests may be hesitant to speak about.'_

He felt more than saw them tense at the name 'Riddle'. Clearly Riddle played an important part in their world, most likely in their war, and he suspected if his presence here at Hogwarts as the Professor of Defense against the Dark Arts was such a surprise that perhaps their Riddle had fallen to the darkness as the headmaster had once feared.

He, Professor McGonagall, Black, Evans, Granger and Malfoy all entered the chambers off to the side of the Great Hall behind the head table. He conjured or transfigured several chairs and a long table to seat them all comfortably. He raised his eyes in respect as both Granger and Malfoy worked together to cast several high-level privacy charms, not to mention a couple of spells with harsh consequences for any who would attempt to listen or attack them. Astoundingly, they were in sync; neither getting in the other's way nor mispronouncing a word.

"Satisfied?" He asked amused, seating himself at the head of the table with Minerva to his right, followed by Sirius and Petunia to his left with a seat open next to her for Riddle. Granger and Malfoy sat across from him, moving their chairs next to each other to sit side by side.

"More satisfied than not; we have only cast the minimum amount of spells necessary to ensure protection and secrecy. You might find our ways somewhat daunting, but in our world it was and is necessary for the goal of survival. We have only given you a brief summary about the situation. There are more dangers than we spoke of." With that, she took several packets of notebook paper and passed them down to the others. "In those packets are further details about the War, the Aftermath and a basic outline of the state of the Wizarding world. Who were the main leaders of both sides, their causes and some notable figures; a basic timeline of events, not entirely chronological; who was the victor; who's dead and who's survived; who leads what Remnant, etc., etc."

Then she sat back and began a conversation about logistics and supply with her companion that quickly went over his head, as the house elves usually worried about such things.

In the meantime, he and the others read the packets, too curious to wait for Riddle.

He was already horrified by what his counterpart's precious Order had become and the heavy losses the 'Light' side had sustained, most especially of his strongest supporters—the Weasleys. According to this, their family has been one of the hardest hit by the War, perhaps because they were such good friends and allies of his, not to mention a notorious Light family. By the end of it he was sickened, disgusted, horrified, shocked and could not believe that these two young people had survived the world they came from; much less able to rebuild anything from its tainted ashes.

'_They were so young! Far too young…'_

It was at this very moment, as they were all reeling from what they had learned—they really had only been given the briefest of summaries—that their Professor of Defense against the Dark Arts entered the room.


	4. enemy

_It was at this very moment, as they were all reeling from what they had learned—they really had only been given the briefest of summaries—that their Professor of Defense against the Dark Arts entered the room._

He paused mid-step, barely across the threshold, as every eye turned to him—two in undisguised wariness and suspicious, and four in varying degrees of distress.

In one glance he understood the situation, well, as much as he could without all the facts, and slowly walked toward the headmaster.

"Headmaster?" Professor Riddle questioned, his sculpted eyebrow arching as perfectly as any pureblood. "You called?"

His eyes slid inexorably toward the other side of the room, keeping his back facing away from the strangers and most likely sensing how very tempted they were to curse him.

In the part of his brain not overwhelmed by everything, Dumbledore noted absentmindedly that he still did not know why they disliked Riddle so much and that that information was curiously missing from the packets. This left him with an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps there was a very _bad_ reason for that.

"Are they the…visitors…from another world?" His tone conveying flawlessly how very credulous he thought such an explanation to be, no doubt baffled as much as irritated by Professor Vector from her tendency to babble at high speed when confronted with an amazing discovery as travel to an alternate reality would be.

"Yes, yes. This is Hermione Jean Granger, the Creator of the being sent to greet us named 'Hagrid'. Her companion is Draco Malfoy-Black. They are two of the four individuals who lead Hogwarts in the other reality." At the name 'Malfoy' and 'Black', he saw some interest spark the eyes of his Defense Professor, though he still clearly disdained of them.

"I know you may find it hard to believe but they have proved to me that they are telling the truth. And as I said to the others," he began, seeing that Riddle was about to point out that—"I am a trained Legilimens and Occulemens, I would have known if they had been lying, or at least, lying for the most part; they would have made a slip by now and so far they have not; they had told me three truths that only the dead would know; and by Merlin, do you really think Hogwarts would have allowed a threat to remain in her halls if they meant harm to anyone?"

"As you say, Headmaster." He could tell that Riddle was not satisfied but could not argue without knowing more. Dumbledore bid him to sit and silently passed him his own copy, not needing to read it again as the information was permanently burned into his mind. He noticed that Granger and Malfoy were both carefully observing Riddle, as if expecting him to suddenly attack; both of their hands had disappeared underneath the table when he had entered.

It was quite possible that they were fingering their wands, so he discreetly slipped his into his own hand just in case. He hoped they had learned self-restraint as part of their harsh learning environment but he didn't want to fire call the Diggorys to inform them that their adopted son was dead due to being cursed by strangers from another reality. Yes, that was _not_ a conversation he was looking forward to.

He was almost, _almost_ surprised when both snapped their eyes to him the second he pointed his wand toward them, in preparation of a simple stunner. He stared at them in stern disapproval and warning; he wasn't about to allow anyone to stun a teacher under his employ. For long moments, the only sound was of Riddle turning pages until the two of them nodded to him in grudging agreement and placed their hands back on the table.

Malfoy laid them down with his wand still held in one hand while Granger….Granger placed them atop the table in a demure manner, one hand on her wand and the other wrapped around a muggle firearm with her finger on the trigger!

Before he could say a word—warning or spell, he didn't know—she said this: "Don't. It's impervious to magic of any kind and trying to destroy it will only make it stronger. All you need to know is that neither of us will 'shoot', so long as _he_ keeps himself in line."

A soft 'thump' was heard as Riddle dropped the packet, startled to find a gun pointed at him, as he finally noticed how tense the situation had become in only a matter of minutes.

"From what the Headmaster has told us, you are as far from the Riddle we know as we have ever dared to imagine. Yet, you wear the face of an Enemy; of the general who led his side against ours. Just as you are unsure about us and our intentions, so too are we about you and yours.

"Our first instinct was to curse you into oblivion and burn your corpse, never to be resurrected again through any Dark ritual, no matter the sacrifice. And we are not even among the ones who suffered most under the authority of your counterpart. So, please, forgive us if we seem…unwelcoming. It's simply hard to overcome years of hate. I'm sure you understand."

With that, she appeared to relax somewhat; seeming to find that finally facing the doppelganger of her enemy and threatening him a therapeutic activity.

Her companion was quite the opposite and sat stiffly beside her. Obviously he did not feel the same. "I, on the other hand, still vote for the 'curse you into oblivion' action. An Enemy is eternal—to be cursed in name and deed always. Or do you forgive so easily, Sister?" He taunted snidely and then suddenly turned to her in anger. "Have you forgotten what he has done? Do the faces of the dead not haunt you in your dreams, as well as your waking hours?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I have _never_ forgotten what has been done to us, nor the thousand dead_._ Likewise do I not forgive my Enemy; this one in front of us may bear his face but he is not the same. You can see as well as I, he is more man than serpent and more content in his lot in life than restlessly wandering for more—does this man before you so fear death as to make his _nom de guerre_ the 'flight of death'?" Her lips curled back and she bared her teeth. "Perhaps he is just as cruel and cunning; just as power-hungry. And if he should make the same mistakes thrice, we shall swiftly end his life."

She deliberately paused to lean forward, making her own anger known. "_BUT THIS IS NOT THE SAME MAN!_" Her voice rose to an ear-splitting shriek, hair actually sizzling with magic in her own anger.

But just as quickly, she calmed; the red leeching from her cheeks and serenely smoothing her hair down. "I'm not asking you to forgive-I'm asking you to set aside your hate as I have mine and focus on the reason you're here with me, rather than Evans or Weasley; to negotiate a business arrangement and to secure ourselves an Ally with a powerful Clan in a new world where we have none. Now, can you do it or should I send for someone else?"

He flinched as if struck, but turned back toward the headmaster, resolutely ignoring Riddle. "No need. It's my job, isn't it?"

"I certainly _thought _so." She said, some residual anger finding its way into her voice. "Forgive my Brother, he has anger issues. Let's get on with the meeting, shall we? Are there any particular questions that you, Headmaster Dumbledore, need answered more? Or should we begin final arrangements?"

Dumbledore blinked, still trying to decide whether or not she was serious about ending the life of one of his professors. He had the feeling that she did not make threats easily or without the will to follow through them.

"Ah, yes. I do have a few more questions, if you don't mind. Mostly out of curiosity, mind you, so don't feel you have to answer."

"If any of your questions have to do with the business arrangement, go ahead. Otherwise, please save any personal questions for afterwards as my companion and I would like to return to the Remnant soon. I may not have mentioned it before, but there is a time limit on the portal currently open between our two realities. The one we used today—it was mid-afternoon when we left—will remain 'open' for 2 hours more before it closes. The next one will not be available for another week." She said, tapping a watch similar to one he owned on her companion's wrist, hidden underneath the trailing sleeves.

"I just have a few questions then, mere technicalities, I'm sure. Nonetheless, could you explain to me exactly what you mean by the following terms: 'ally', 'enemy', 'clan' and 'business arrangement'?"

She nodded approvingly. "A reasonable and wise request to ask for clarification before agreeing to anything."

'_How Slytherin of her,' _he thought. He noticed that Sirius had an expression of grudging respect and nodded with her.

"An Ally is someone who a) pledged their allegiance to you and yours, b) made a lasting 'business arrangement' with you, or c) who you may trust with Family; an Enemy is someone who is or are in some way a threat to your Family by a) actively attacking you and yours, b) have wronged you or yours through word or deed, or c) one whose very _existence_ poses a threat to the Family; a business arrangement is simply that—a mutually beneficial and satisfying exchange of service, resource, knowledge and/or any other asset available; and I believe that 'Hagrid' has explained what a Clan is?"

"Yes, he did. But I was wondering why you referred to the people residing here as a Clan. We have not banned together for survival nor do we need to."

Grim amusement touched her face. "No? Is Hogwarts not a castle fortress, once laid under siege by witch hunters and dark wizards alike? Are your halls not guarded by ancient statues which will come to life should the need arise to defend its denizens? Do your students not depend on you and your staff, not to mention the house elves, for food and shelter? You protect and guide them, teaching them how to survive in your world; how to defend against those who would harm them, how to turn an object into anything they may need and you offer them sanctuary from forces that would seek to pervert them. Hogwarts is and will always be a Clan, home to all who seek the fortress, though some will betray and be cast aside or leave, never to return."

She spoke with belief bleeding through every single word, daring him to deny her. But he could not, for though he still did not consider Hogwarts a 'clan', she did not state any untruths.

"Now, let's proceed with the arrangements. We have wasted enough time."

She was back to being as professional and painfully practical as ever. For the next hour and a half, he and Granger went over the pre-written contract she drew from her satchel, adding some things and taking unnecessary clauses away. The contract was very practical and simply stated that the two parties and any mentioned sub-parties would agree to an exchange of goods and/or services; that the supplies Clan Hogwarts provided would be repaid in full as soon as possible; that aid would be rendered if necessary; and a token of goodwill be exchanged and sealed with a blood quill.

He was somewhat hesitant to use his own blood; effectively making the contract ironclad, even though he had signed many important Ministry documents in the same way. But he was assured that it was standard procedure and only meant for both parties to be sure the contract would remain unbroken.

Once both Dumbledore and Granger looked it over a final time, he had the house elves bring some refreshments to celebrate. He noted that Granger frowned when they appeared but said nothing. "Is something wrong?" He asked, delighted now that 'business' was over with, he was allowed to ask what she deemed as 'personal' questions—his favorite kind.

She shrugged lightly. "A matter of personal opinion, nothing more; I simply don't like the use of house elves for such trivial matters. And it's been a long time since any of the Remnant relied on one, if any. I suppose I'm just not used to their presence anymore."

"If you don't use house elves, who cooks for and cleans Hogwarts—surely not the students?" He asked, half-joking-wondering whether or this was yet another difference between their two world, due to the circumstances of war.

She nodded. "Yes, all 'students' and 'staff' are required to cook their own meals and keep their rooms clean—the non-magical way. The elves do some general maintenance, of course; provide meals for special occasions and the sick, and sometimes the disabled. But we have far better uses of their skills."

His fork stopped part way to his mouth, a slice of lemon pie dangling from it. "Such as what?" But she shook her head—matters of security, right. "Do you really expect eleven year old children to cook for and pick up after themselves?"

"We _do_ expect it of them and they meet all our expectations; they cook their own meals and pick up after themselves, otherwise, they will not eat and their room will stink. They also do their own laundry and many work for pay." Granger paused to drink. "Additionally, we have children from the ages of 5 to 18 residing with us."

"But that's even more unbelievable! How can you expect it of an 11 year old, much less a toddler?"

Dumbledore would have reprimanded his Deputy Headmistress from possibly alienating their guests and refusing to answer their questions, if he wasn't just as curious to the answer why. She didn't raise her eyes from the steak she was cutting into precise squares and spoke quietly but no one missed a word she said.

"You underestimate them; they're children, not invalids. Many of them were orphaned, the last of their families or caught by slavers—if we had not found them and taken them in, they would be dead. As it is, we had to refuse many. Those _children_ had been living on their own for months or years, scavenging for food and stealing it if necessary. They've lived through a bloody war and the even bloodier Aftermath. Any 'innocence' they may have had is long gone. To treat them like helpless babies would have been an insult not only to their intelligence, but also to their fierce will to live—to s_urvive_."

Malfoy fervently agreed with her. "If we had even thought to treat them that way, there'd been a revolt. Especially the younger Creevey brother. They're all a bunch of prideful little buggers. Anyway, it's not like we don't teach them how if they don't know; that's what the _classes_ are for."

The piece of lemon pie plopped down on his plate and made a mess of his beard. While he was busy hastily wiping it away, Minerva took over. "You teach them to cook and clean? But what about Transfiguration, Charms and the like?"

Granger motioned for Malfoy to answer the questions, intent on finishing her steak. He looked forlornly at his own steamed oysters and scowled at her, clearly wishing to do the same. He sighed. "Oh, we have a dual education: some of the core Hogwarts classes alongside non-magical subjects, such as English, math and science. There are also some elective courses they can take depending on which House they follow. And, of course, there are the mandatory courses."

"Muggle subjects! What for? Ah, no offense, Petunia, but really…?" Petunia snorted in derision and went back to eating her lunch of plain yogurt with mixed berries on the side. "I can understand learning proper English and basic mathematics, but why science? And what do you mean by 'the House they follow'?"

"Well," he drawled. "Considering that there are hardly any adults left, much less private tutors, and it was far too dangerous to send them off into the non-magical world for some lessons, unstable as it was, _someone_ had to teach them how to read the bloody alphabet and count their toes, didn't they? Then, Granger here introduced the rest of us to science and we realized it might be handy for them to know how the world works, you know, the logic behind it all. Anatomy, Biology, Chemistry…they were all considered practical to learn, so we added them to the general curriculum. Mostly, they're electives but they can't blame us if they didn't take the class and not know that looking into the bloody sun is a _bad_ idea."

Here, Granger interrupted with a quick: "Oh, they're not that bad."

"Hah! That's because you got all the nice law-abiding ones. _I_ get stuck with the dunderheads." She rolled her eyes and went back to eating. He huffed, annoyed, but continued his explanation.

"The Houses are the four different curriculums that a student can choose to follow, based on their greatest strength or area of interest. I'm the founder of House Black, where we focus on developing 'people skills', that is, the ability to form and maintain successful business relations with other Clans and Institutions. Granger is the founder of, well, House Granger and their focus is on accumulating a broad range of knowledge to create a reliable base of information.

"House Evans, led by Harper Evans. Its focus is on accumulating a specific range of knowledge with a practical application, for the goal of creating an effective security force. House Weasley, led by Ron Weasley, focus on a program of extreme physical and magical fitness, supplemented by the Mind Arts for the goal of creating an effective fighting force."

This time, it was Sirius who asked the questions, interested by the combat lessons but uneasy about them as well. "So you train the students to not only cook and clean, but to fight as well? Isn't that a bit extreme?" He was met with darkened eyes, sharp with remembered pain.

"Extreme? No. Extreme is when you have to eat tasteless gruel for months because the house elves are all dead, insane or gone back to wherever the bloody hell they came from. Extreme is when you have to kill your own father to live because his precious Mark destroyed his mind when the Dark Lord was defeated. Extreme is when you have to turn yourself into a girl because the other side is so biased that they'd stupidly dismiss you for the simple fact that you're not a Pureblood, much less female-and you're the number one target in the war. So, no, I don't think it's _extreme_ to teach them a few life skills."

"Is 'life skills' one of those mandatory courses you were speaking of?" Riddle questioned. A pained expression crossed Malfoy's face but he answered promptly, if a bit sullenly.

"Yes. Life/Survival Skills, Basic Combat, Research 101, and my favorite, WND, which stands for 'what not to do'; these are the four mandatory classes every student must take and pass. Excuses are not tolerated."

"Interesting. What exactly do you teach in Basic Comb—"

A muggle song interrupted from the direction of the watch, accompanied by blinking lights: _'welcome to a new kind of tension-all across the alienation-where everything isn't meant to be ok…'_

Both Granger and Malfoy stood up. "Sorry, it seems we're out of time. That was the 10 minute mark." Soon they were all back where it all began, in the middle of the Great Hall. Dumbledore handed over a shrunken package of medical supplies and food as his 'token of goodwill'. In seconds they were gone, the only evidence of their stay the modified Book of Names left behind on the table.

He didn't know if he was dreading or anxiously anticipating their return. To be perfectly honest, it was probably a bit of both.


	5. the return

Chapter Five: the return

_He didn't know if he was dreading or anxiously anticipating their return. To be perfectly honest, it was probably a bit of both._

The entire Wizarding world spent the next week in tense anticipation; their arrival and return were to be secret, so of course the entire school knew and had sent excited letters to their parents. It was just regretful that some of those parents happened to work in the Ministry of Magic.

He tried not to let his annoyance show as members of the Ministry ran around the Great Hall, rearranging _his_ school as they liked. The Minister couldn't come himself, unfortunately—though privately he thought that was a very good thing as the visitors had made their dislike of the Ministry clear enough.

He thought it was going to be hard enough with just the dozen or so members he had been…convinced…to include as part of the reception party. He only hoped that Granger and Malfoy, and the rest of their party, most especially the other Founders, would prove to adapt easily to unexpected circumstances as their history would suggest.

Otherwise, things would get very messy, indeed.

He did everything he could to lessen the damage, both to his beloved school and to the welcoming the Remnant would receive—all to no avail. They had turned his little 'reception party' to a Ministry Ball. Oh, of course, they didn't call it such but when they went ahead and invited more than a hundred people to attend; added decoration after ridiculous decoration to the Great Hall, until it looked like the winner of one of those 'who has the best ballroom?' contests that Witch Weekly's hosts; and the room just kept filling up with more politicians every minute—what the bloody else could it be?

It was horrible, he felt like he was at a Wizemagot meeting and a Ministry Gala at once—but worse, because this was Hogwarts, his greatest achievement and sanctuary all in one, violated by Ministry politics. He could only hope the visitors had more patience than he did at the moment, but he wasn't wishing very hard—they'd descended like locusts, now let them be taken care of like the pests they are when_ they_ finally returned.

His wand-hand twitched toward the Elder wood in his robe pockets when the Ministry appointed 'decorator' cast the walls of the Great Hall in a particularly revolting shade of puce.

The 'party' was in full-swing by the time _it_ happened; the bright swirling of rainbow colors in the ceiling of the Great Hall. This time, it was a lot larger than before—understandable. He reasoned, considering they were bringing their entire people. He only hoped that the incoming group all fit into the room, even with all of the expansion charms that were cast to accommodate the guests.

The same crackle of lightning arced toward the ground right underneath which was cleared of all people and objects. Luckily, this was one of the few things the Ministry had listened to him about. At the moment, he was wishing they hadn't so he could be rid of a few pests.

He grimaced and smoothed his expression into the genial grandfatherly persona he had perfected long ago as his staff glanced at him, sensing his irritation—far more serious about it then he should have been. Perhaps it might be time to practice his Occlumency techniques tonight, so as to curb his darker impulses. He didn't often need to forcibly calm himself but the combination of learning how bad it could have all gone had he not made certain decisions and taken a long, hard look at himself, and the nuisance that was the Ministry trespassing on Hogwarts grounds was not doing anything for his patience.

They all watched with baited breath as the light faded to reveal a dozen or so people arranged in a circle facing outward. Each and every one of them were either standing in a battle stance or crouching to strike. They, like the first being the Headmaster met, wore muggle clothing; black tops and bottoms with a multitude of pockets, and steel-toed boots. They also wore a corded necklace with that familiar crest hanging from it. He observed that only a few wore the leather bands with two colors that Granger and Malfoy wore.

He wondered if they had any special meaning, as it seemed that only a particular person wore them; perhaps they signified a higher rank?

Before he could step forward to greet them, he was rudely pushed aside by thugs of the Minister's undersecretary, Dolorus Umbridge. He stared at her back as she spoke in a voice so condescendingly sweet that it hurt his ears to listen to.

"Welcome, honored guests, to our world. I represent the Ministry and would like to say on behalf of the Minister that we hope to be frien—"

She was cut off by an angered voice, humming with deadly intent.

"_What_ is the meaning of this?"

The circle parted in the middle to let two men step forward. One was tall and broad-shouldered with the flaming red hair that so characterized the Weasleys. In addition to the same outfit as the rest of his party, he wore a Hogwarts robe modified for battle with slits cut at the sides to allow more freedom of movement. Sticking out from his shoulder was the mouth of a rifle—another one that seemed to prefer muggle firearms to magical weaponry like Granger—and most likely impervious to magic as well.

The other was shorter and slimmer with black hair that fell in wild curls down his back. To be honest, Dumbledore would have assumed he was a woman if it weren't for the lack of breasts. He was one of the few who wore the leather armbands with the same colors as Grangers'. Around his neck was a delicate gold chain with a lily pendant hanging next to the crest and from his waist hung a _very_ familiar sword with rubies glittering from the handle in a pale sheath.

Dumbledore suspected the sheath was made of some reptilian hide, noting the pebbled texture.

"Evans and Weasley, I presume gentlemen?" He said, making a reasonable guess and trying to defuse the situation but the strangers refused to be appeased so easily; sharp eyes snapped to him.

"Answer me, old man." He hissed, neither denying nor confirming the assumption that these two were the other Founders. Dumbledore chose to diplomatically ignore the insult following the command. There were worse things than the truth to be called.

Dumbledore found himself looking into familiar green eyes—_Lily's eyes!_ His own eyes widened slightly. That must be why 'Hagrid' was so interested in Petunia; this must be someone related to her then. Why, a thought popped into his head suddenly, it could even be possible that the man in front of her was her nephew which meant—looking closer at the face, he wondered how he hadn't recognized it sooner. Here was the son of James Potter and Lily Evans, quite possibly!

"_Albus Dumbledore!_ I ask again: What is the meaning of this?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat, careful to keep his thoughts to himself. There was a reason Granger and Malfoy hadn't mentioned a Potter, probably a very good reason; the man in front of him had also gone to a lot of trouble to keep his heritage unknown. That is assuming, of course, that he was right.

But even if he _was_ right, it was only idle speculation for now.

He had been more right than wrong, but he didn't want to make a mistake. When men with his kind of power made a mistake, terrible things occurred and he had learned that painful lesson well. Losing a sister and almost losing a child with such potential to the darkness was enough to remind him of that moral for centuries to come.

Sending a strained smile their way, he explained thus: "Word of your group's presence was spread by the students through letters to their parents, some of whom are Ministry officials, which eventually got to the Minister, himself. At first, all believed this to be a fantastical tale but when the Ministry learned of the preparation being done by Hogwarts in anticipation of your return and after conducting an investigation into the magics which occurred here in the Great Hall…well, they had no choice but to believe it."

"And, so what? You just let them take over Hogwarts?" Dumbledore turned to Weasley who looked at him in disbelief and shrugged lightly, continuing on with his explanation. He turned back to the other man, hoping he would read between the lines and have some small mercy.

"The Ministry decided that a small 'reception party' was not enough and turned it into a Ministry Ball. I _did_ warn them that your group didn't particularly care for the Ministry but they insisted. And _this _is the result." He waved his hands aside to indicate the transformed Great Hall.

"Do you mock us?" He snapped out. "Did we not say we were very recently at War, Headmaster? Did we not give you detailed information of the Aftermath which destroyed the two worlds?" A murmuring went through the assembled crowd, as the letters had never mentioned any of _this_. "Did we not warn you that we are still very much a war-like people?"

"Yes, you did. And I understand the situation very well; however, I am subject to forces beyond my control and sometimes must bow down to them in order to maintain the stability of my world. I'm sure you understand what I'm speaking of."

Identical looks of disgusts crossed the faces of the men in front of him. "Politics." Weasley said, spitting out the word like a curse. Perhaps for their world, it very much was. From their own accounts, the Ministry wasn't of much help to anyone, whether it was providing aid or leadership during wartime. "We wouldn't be so lucky as to find a world without one, would we, Evans?" His contempt dripped from each word.

Evans snorted. "Unlikely. It's a necessary evil, I'm told." There was a deliberate pause and then: "Of course, they could all simply do what we did to our politicians, couldn't they, Weasley?"

All saw the cruel mischief light his eyes.

And felt fear coil around their hearts.

Weasley answered with a devious smirk, "Hmm…skin them alive and roast them in the fireplace you mean? Or cut them into tiny little pieces and feed them to the dogs? Or maybe," He said, enjoying the expressions of horror and hasty steps back of those politicians in attendance, namely more than half the room. "Maybe, the ones we handed over to 'the Dragon'?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Well, it seems they don't like our idea of political reform, mate. Better luck next time."

"Ah, well."

Evans seemed genuinely disappointed, which didn't comfort anyone.

And just like that, this show of emotion swiftly faded away to be replaced by an impassive countenance. "I hope you are not seeking to manipulate us as your counterpart did, Headmaster, because you will find that those who sought to control me and mine had a way of…disappearing. But no, I don't think you're quite the fool He was. So tell me, Headmaster—just who's ridiculous idea was it? Hmm?"

Unforgiving eyes swept out through the crowd. "Well, tell me—anyone, anyone at all?—willing to speak about exactly _who_ is responsible for this stupidity? No?" None stepped forward.

"Seems like _this_ one is a bit smarter than the last Ministry we dealt with—" Weasley began but was interrupted by a grating sound.

"Eh-hem." The sound of Madame Umbridge clearing her throat 'daintily'.

Weasley blinked, in astonishment or resigned acceptance, it was hard to tell.

"I spoke too soon."

"Pardon me, but am I to understand that you are displeased by the arrangements?"

Weasley snorted in contempt. "Displeased isn't exactly the word I was thinking of; more like 'tetchy', 'irritable', 'aggravated', 'pissed off', and my favorite one—'feeling an itching in the wand-hand.'"

The fairy lights cast his hair in a fiery glow and the sharp-toothed grin he gave them made him seem practically demonic. Evans looked no better—no human—as he spoke next, expressing the same sentiment, though in far more graphic words than his companion.

"This…party…is both unnecessary and an insult to our alliance, Headmaster." He pointed toward Umridge. "You—Ministry dog—are nothing more than an ugly reminder of exactly whose sense of entitlement and fucked-up priorities allowed the War to descend so rapidly into chaos as it did. So, am I displeased?"

He paused—not to allow anyone time to absorb his words, but to make his next words very clear to even someone he considered lower than the ground he walked on. "I am not."

If anyone had believed those words, even they were not so stupid as to speak right then.

"I am distressed by the fact that I will have to stain these new uniforms, only days after they were sewn with painstaking care by our most beloved Seamstress, with the blood of yet more Ministry fools."

Evans' hand fell on the handle of his sword.

"I am angered that I will have to exert any effort at all, to subdue the Masses in such a way as to make clear my utmost distaste for any and all things related to what _you_ refer to as 'politics' and to me, is nothing more than another word for 'people too stupid to know they've been manipulated'."

His other made one too-quick-to-see gesture and expertly handled the end of his wand, which suddenly appeared in his hand like, well, magic.

"I almost feel pity for the families of those who will die tonight—a quick and painless death that none under Ministry employ deserve—who has had to deal with these repugnant, sickening, pathetic excuses for human beings that I see before me."

Both wand and sword angled in front of him in an unmistakable gesture of violence.

That's when the first person—a mid-level Ministry Official, Handle Kesler—tried to apparate from Hogwarts. Impossible and deadly—and _stupid_—since Hogwarts has long had anti-apparation wards and every Magical citizen of the Isles knew it.

But terror and the promise of violence can do many things to otherwise mature people…because he was not the only one who tried.

* * *

AN: so, can anyone tell me why Evans is so hostile to Dumbledore? Who thinks Evans is actually Harry Potter, or if its just the Headmaster's wishful thinking? What do you think the di-colored armbands mean? What is the crest they all wear? What do you think changed Malfoy to have him get along with Granger-muggleborn and Gryffindor (as far as you know)? Will this 'alliance' last or is it doomed to fail, due to past but alternate experiences with the same counterparts back in their own world and the doubts the people of this world harbor? Will the Ministry's desire to control everything and anything-and destroy those that refuse their rule (or try, case in point: hogwarts)-ruin the 'alliance'...or unearth dark secrets the visitors aren't willing to share?

tell me your answers and ill tell you how close, or far, you are from the truthp-as ive written it and envisioned-and maybe ill even let you know some of their [allegedly] dark secrets.


	6. politics

_But terror and the promise of violence can do many things to otherwise mature people…because he was not the only one._

By the time Dumbledore and several other level-headed persons were able to calm them all down, thirteen other individuals had attempted to apparate and five of them had splinched different parts of themselves. All Ministry personnel except for the one—Heather Whistle—who'd always had the unfortunate tendency to do the worst thing possible when faced with impossible odds, or _seemingly_ impossible odds, or just extremely nervous. In this case, it was to try a very stupid thing when she should have known better.

They should have _all_ known better.

And while everyone else had been going crazy—some immediately heading for the exits, others being as still and quiet as they could, as if they doing so would leave them unnoticed—Evans and Weasley simply stood there, watching and sharing thoroughly amused glances.

Dumbledore pursed his lips and though he was definitely glad that this 'party' was over and done with, he did not appreciate having to play counselor and comforter to these people anymore than he suspected the visitors would. If they even had the patience for such things. But he thought they did—they wouldn't have been able to rebuild or do anything constructive otherwise—which meant that they just didn't care to use that patience when dealing with the Ministry.

Something he should have realized right away when they said the only reason they didn't include a failsafe with Ministry in The Book of Names was because they were sure that incompetence or corruption, or both, would stand in the way of actually helping the children.

* * *

At last they were done; the guests had left, except for those few hardcore Ministry personnel who _weren't_ stupid enough to try and apparate, the decorations were cleared, the room returned to its original size, more or less, because there were still more of the visiting party yet to arrive—something Dumbledore should have seen right away when he considered the size of the school that the Remnant had been using as their _home_—and was left to face Evans and Weasley, without any Ministry official getting in the way and making thing worse.

"Eh-hem."

This time, he let his wand-hand fall to the Elder wand, which was demanding he satisfy his annoyance with Umbridge in a thoroughly bloody manner. And this time, he felt the answering echo from the wand held by Evans across from him.

He met and held the eyes coolly looking back at him, letting Evans know that they _would_ have a talk about that. He was answered with a roll of the eyes. Dumbledore felt his eyes twitch.

'_Impertinent brat. Even if I pity him or empathize, that's no excuse for being disrespectful.'_

His eyes twitched even more violently when Evans added a contemptuous little sneer.

_'Is this how Minerva feels when she had to discipline an unruly student with a simple loss of points rather than transfiguring them into a toad, as she's claimed countless times she's been tempted to do?'_

"_Mister_ Evans," Umbridge started, emphasizing the 'mister', as if the lack of a title would matter at all to Evans. "Was it really necessary to frighten the guests away? They had come here with hope and good cheer in their hearts and you answer them with threats and violence? I am not so sure now that the Ministry's desires to form a friendship with your group are so necessary if _this_ is the way you treat all potential partners."

She paused for several moments, raising her eyebrows and trying to convey some sort of hidden message with her fluttering lashes and pursing lips; Dumbledore realized that she was expecting the silence to be filled with apologies or something equally as unlikely. He felt her impatience when neither were forthcoming from Evans.

"Well?" She snapped out, not used to being refused at all or for long—not with the weight of the Minister behind her demands.

Were it anyone but the ones before them, perhaps they would have succumbed to her unspoken command but they were not anyone she had power over. The sooner she realized that, the sooner she would understand that nothing she could say or do would ever force Evans or Weasley or any of the others who had appeared with them, looking her up and down with disgust, to do anything they didn't want to do.

Evans took one long, hard look at her and then, quite unexpectedly, smiled a sweet, charming smile. Had Dumbledore been a muggle, he might have said an angel stood before them. As it was, being raised in a muggle-wizarding village and knowing enough about muggle customs and traditions to make remarks that left many a pureblood confused, he might have said it anyways.

"Madame Umbridge." She preened as she always did whenever someone referred to her by her title—and gloated. "Madam Umbridge," he began again, speaking over her gloating, "I would like, more than anything to apologize to you for the violent manner in which I have, so far, acted towards you and the respectable Institution you represent."

He nodded cordially to her, though Dumbledore noticed that it was not an inch more than what you greeted one's underling by. How quickly did she forget his snide remarks against her, spoken but hours ago.

She smiled encouragingly, nodding along as if she was watching a particularly captivating show on the telly—not that she would know what one was with her ridiculous prejudice against all thing muggle.

"However, I am merely sharing responsibilities as Head Officer of Security with my companion. I am not the leader of the Remnant or in any position of high authority. I am merely the best representative they have to offer at the moment, still in the middle of preparations as we are, same as you are Madame—as you _are_ the best the Ministry has to offer?"

Dumbledore watched, not quite surprised but still wondering how someone as politically knowledgeable as Umbridge didn't even realize she was being manipulated by someone she should not have believed even about the most truthful of statements. But he, himself, had used much the same tactics as Evans—flattering, cajoling, crooning words of encouragement and praise—to be _that_ surprised it had worked.

He knew from experience that the only way to deal with someone like Umbridge was to make them think that whatever you suggested or advised against was their idea in the first place; not as hard you'd think, especially with people who thought themselves to be so clever and powerful.

He also didn't think she heard the mocking emphasis Evans had placed when he stated she was the best the Ministry had to offer; she most likely took it for the compliment it was meant to be, but the Headmaster noted the shades of scorn and loathing Evans couldn't quite keep out of his voice. It was so slight, however, that he doubted anyone but he had noticed it.

Weasley's raised eyebrow proved him wrong. Ah. So it had been noticed. But they said nothing. Why? The ruthlessly suppressed smiles said it all; it amused them all to see Evans manipulate the Undersecretary in this way and perhaps they thought that if she didn't even have the skills to notice she was being manipulated, she didn't deserve to be 'saved'.

What was it that Evans had said?

'_Politics'…is nothing more than another word for 'people too stupid to know they've been manipulated'._

In this case, it was nothing more than truth.

"I see. Well. Well, yes, of course, you don't have the authority to apologize on behalf of your entire people—the Remnant, did you call it?—but I think I will be satisfied with a simple apology, comrade to comrade."

The "charming" smile on Evans' face froze.

His companions shifted nervously and muttered among themselves. "Comrade?" he repeated, sounding dazed—as if she honored him by labeling him thus—to those who did not know him well or was too stupid to see that there was something going on—as if he had not heard her say so—some dark emotion stirring behind his eyes.

Umbridge, still foolishly believing she had won him over so easily, did not bother to look further than the brittle smile on Evans' face and said, "Yes. You and I are comrades, now—why, we're both representing our respective leaders and what they represent—I could only hope to dismiss all of this as a simple misunderstanding."

Evans gave a long, slow blink.

"Misunderstanding," he repeated.

And this time Umbridge looked a bit annoyed.

Dumbledore was not sure exactly of what was going to happen; only that it wouldn't be pretty or any kind of good, political move at all. He observed the smile fading right away, as if it had never been there and thought, _'I don't think he really cares. He was just playing with her and now he's done.'_ Dumbledore glanced at Umbridge. _'But she still doesn't _understand _what's going on.'_

With a move too quick to see, much less counter—though to give credit, the Aurors guarding Umbridge weren't too far behind in speed—she was bound in ropes that writhed and tightened the more she struggled. The guards were knocked out instantly by some dark shadow that struck from below them and tightened around their necks until their eyes rolled in their heads and they fell to the ground.

Dumbledore didn't realize until he got closer, in an effort to step between them so as to prevent further harm, that it wasn't rope that bound her but _snakes_. He was mystified. Who used snakes as ropes? But he had no more time to wonder at that as his attention was captured by Evans, at the sibilant hisses that he spoke.

'_A parseltongue? Was I wrong—is Evans some long-lost descended of Slytherin, not a Potter? Only those descended of Slytherin blood could speak the serpent tongue. Only Dark wizards.' _

He tried to banish his uncharitable thoughts, especially the last, but as he stood there staring into the face of the man before him, he found it—difficult—to do so. There was no apology, no explanation, and no attempt to sooth concerns. In fact, Evans wasn't concerning himself with Dumbledore at all—he was focused entirely on the woman behind him, who was screaming hysterically and shouting threats simultaneously.

Evans laughed.

Well, more like chuckled but the meaning was clear; this was nothing more than an amusement to him. A game. Her suffering meant nothing—or perhaps, her suffering _was _the game? Gellert often tortured his enemies for the sake of it, not for information or as an example or anything like that—because he _liked_ it.

Was Evans the same? Was he a wizard who would plunge Dumbledore's world into the chaos of war that only a true Dark Lord could achieve, if Dumbledore allowed them through? Was the Remnant actually his army and Granger and Malfoy were simply decoys? Was this all an elaborate ruse to conquer a new world in his boredom or—

Dumbledore clamped down on his thoughts—_hard_—and took deep breaths, ignoring all else, even Umbridge's screams, though it was difficult because he could tell it was born of hysteria not pain.

No, he would not fall victim to his prejudice once again. He would not allow his doubts and worries to so consume his thoughts as to allow his bias unchecked, dismissing the well-founded concerns of a young wizard in need of his help and cause a wizard to turn to the Dark Arts for validation instead. Not again.

He had refused to allow his grudge against Slytherins to persist with Severus—after his prejudice had almost cost the poor boy his life. He had almost allowed his naivety concerning Riddle's upbringing in the orphanage and the lessons he had learned there—to be as cruel as the ones who harassed him, as cunning as the ones who wished for him to fail—to lead him to a Dark path, intervening and fostering the good in him by introducing him to the Diggorys. He couldn't allow his unfounded suspicions to rule his mind and actions here and now.

Hadn't he learned his lesson yet—the hard way?

He would observe Evans—and Weasley and Granger and Malfoy, and all the others—and make his decisions based on fact, not his speculations. Doubt does not mean that the reason for the doubt exists, only that there is fear…fear of what might possibly lie behind that doubt.

Evans was a parseltongue. That was fact. He was _not_ a Dark wizard—not until he actually _hurt _someone. And Dumbledore must remind himself that these are the survivors of a horrific war, of which was not the most horrible thing they faced and overcame in their world—no, the 'Aftermath' took care of that. Hardened the edges already sharpened by war and kept them ready to be wielded at a moment's notice. _That _was fact.

Labeling Evans a Dark wizard, or a potential Dark Lord, was not a fact.

"Listen well, you utter fool, because I will not repeat myself again. I don't care about your precious Ministry. In fact, I'd very much like to see it burn and I'm not picky on if there happens to be anyone inside. You think our remarks about what we did to the politicians in our world were mere fiction?"

Evans walked forward, not bothering to request Dumbledore move aside, simply going around him and crouched in front of the still-hysterical woman.

"They are not. We skinned alive and burned to bits the man who called himself Minister Fudge; we gave as slops to the feral hounds that guarded our eastern borders in the Forest, those low-level clerks who betrayed the Ministry and would have happily betrayed us in return, were they able to get their hands on some decent information within our camps; and _you_…." Evans breathed her name in one long, harsh whisper that nonetheless carried the all the corners of the Great Hall.

Those few who had decided to stay, some staff and determined partygoers alike, shivered—both dreading and anticipating his next words—as they were no fan of Umbridge either but still felt some pity for her when they looked at the man who held her in his thrall.

"You, Umbridge, we handed over to the Centaurs to do with as they liked. You see, our Umbridge was a real, nasty woman, despising muggleborns and magical creatures alike—passing unfair laws and throwing them into Azkaban, or stripping them of their magic—and had angered them—and us—previously. So we thought it'd only fair to give them the chance to enact their vengeance. Seeing as how you—oh, I'm sorry, that's not _quite_ right is it?—_my_ Umbridge had had them hunted down and stuffed. Displayed like some kind of ridiculous piece of art."

He smiled a smile full of blades and thorns.

"You can probably guess that the Herds weren't very happy about that. But how _happy_ they were, to finally have _you_ in their grasp—to see close-up the face of the woman who had killed their children and mates—and how happy _we_ were when they promised us all the protection and use of the Forest, as much as we liked, just for _you_…there was quite a celebration when they told us their price for their help." His hand snapped forward and thrust her to face him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "You. On a silver platter." She whimpered piteously. "We had no problem with that."

And then she burst into tears, begging him not to kill her, offering all her gold and Ministry secrets and pleading—_ please don't kill me, please don't kill me, please don't kill me…! _Evans looked fairly disgusted by her antics and let her go with a sneering expression, wiping off his hands on his pants, as if touching her had somehow dirtied him. From the same looks of glee from his companions, Dumbledore suspected that Evans had simply been the first to attack her—not the only one wanting to do so—and that no objection from _them _would be forthcoming. He glanced at Weasley, hoping that as his family was notoriously Light, despite being from another world, that he would put a stop to this. Or just _say _something.

But he didn't. Well. He did. But what he said was, "Can you just kill her already, if you're going to do it? We have work to do and her screaming's giving me a headache—if you don't shut her up, _I _will. And I don't have your precision or creativity. I'd just chop her head off and that'd be no fun for anyone would it?" Weasley made an impatient gesture. "Kill her or don't, but Granger's gonna have someone in front of the Council tonight and it's not gonna be me. Not this time, mate."

So, no, Weasley wasn't going to be any help.

Before Dumbledore could interfere or demand that Evans stop torturing the woman already—he was old, not deaf and Weasley wasn't the only one who was bothered by her screams—Evans let her go. He made a shoo-ing gesture with his hand and the snakes disappeared, though not without a brief conversation between them. Umbridge, shaken, was helped up by her bodyguards—who had suddenly woken up at that very moment—and escorted her out the Great Hall.

Though Umbridge being Umbridge, she did not go without a lot of scorn and promises of retribution, already forgetting that she had been cowering and begging for her life only moments before.

Evans did not allow himself the satisfaction of having scared her away to appear on his face for even a moment, though he _must_ have been satisfied for his dislike of her was made quite clear, before focusing back on the Headmaster, as stern and coolly assessing as ever.

"Shall we have a quick word, Headmaster? There are a few things that need to be discussed before the rest of the party arrives. Time _is_ running out."

And that's when the house elves appeared.


	7. reminders

_And that's when the house elves appeared._

With another crackle of magic and swirling rainbow-colored lights, they appeared in the middle of the Great Hall where Evans' 'Security Force' had tensed in preparation of battle.

Dumbledore had no idea whether it was because they truly thought it possible that an enemy could have come through after them, even with all the precautions he assumed they had in place—but they're still at war aren't they, even if the actual war was over and done with?—or because it was just a natural reflex to any conceived threat.

He had thought that after that first meeting between them, that he wouldn't be as surprised as the others at anything they did or revealed because he was privy to things the general public was not—little details like a parseltongue ability aside—but he should have known that the Remnant wouldn't tell him everything about themselves.

Or think to warn him of things that he _should_ know about but didn't because traveling to alternate realities may have been made possible in their world, but he realized, that this experience was probably just as new to them as it was to him.

So when he saw the house elves that had arrived, he couldn't help the wonder in his eyes. They were not at all what he had imagined would come from the portal next. Or resembled in any way the house elves he knew—intimately—as Headmaster.

They had the same droopy ears, bulbous eyes and painfully thin figures. But they carried themselves with a confidence and sense of self he had never known they could possess. There was no nervous twitching and no hunched over postures, waiting to be struck or worse for disobeying an order or not completing it well enough for their Master's satisfaction. They simply stood there and calmly assessed the scene as professionally as any Auror he had ever met, awaiting further instructions and looking expectantly toward Evans and Weasley.

"Shite, I was hoping to get a few things sorted out before they arrived but I suppose we'll just have to deal with it like everything else." Weasley waved the house elves over. "Right, you lot. We haven't discussed the arrangement for temporary housing or storage or anything like that so just make preparations for the others coming through for now. Alright?"

The house elves gave a quick bow and ignored the wizards entirely as they got to work.

"Headmaster, a word?"

Dumbledore gave Weasley his utmost attention, though he made sure to keep an eye on Evans, who was content for now—_'thankfully'_—to lean against the closest table and make their occupants nervous by virtue of being there, giving them a toothy smile, dark green eyes watching their twitching in amusement.

"Like I told the house elves, we'll need some temporary housing— just for a week, week and a half at the most, maybe—if you had some place in mind? Our people's gonna be coming through the whole day in ten minute intervals with lots of baggage on hand. It'd be nice if we had somewhere to put them before the next group, so that nothing takes up more space than necessary."

Weasley looked at him expectantly and Dumbledore reminded himself that he could ask all the questions he wanted when they were settled in and more amenable to speaking with him—or anyone else—after the disaster at the Ministry's hands.

"Yes, of course. I spoke briefly with Miss Granger about some possible locations and have taken the liberty of clearing out several abandoned suites that were once used during a time when Ambassadors frequently enjoyed Hogwarts and her pleasures. Miss Granger and Mister Malfoy-Black were unsure about the exact number that would accompany the party, so we did our best to prepare but, of course, we won't know if we did enough until everyone has arrived…"

He trailed off, leaving it up to Weasley to fill the rest.

"Yeah." Here Weasley gave a great, big sigh. "About little more than half came with us, that's—seventy-five? Seventy-eight? Somewhere around there."

Dumbledore had suspected that not everyone would have decided to leave their world and come to his—though he thought that a world like theirs free of war would be a very nice place to live, but he knew he could never truly understand what they had gone through and was biased besides.

He imagined that Weasley was probably thinking about all the people he had left behind.

He didn't know what his choice would have been, had he been in their place and the opportunity had presented itself and was glad in a purely, selfishly human way that he wasn't and didn't have to make that kind of decision. He would always question whether he made the right choice; whether he would decide to leave for a new world or stay in the one he knew, no matter how unrecognizable it may have become after years of war. There would be fear of what he might possibly face if he left and whether it was the most horrible mistake if he chose to stay—and wonder.

He would always wonder.

His mind prodded him insistently, reminding him that he would have to let his house elves know to prepare lunch for their guests, in addition to the student's dinner. He also had to make some kind of general announcement or he would have a few too many curious pair of eyes and ears trying to sneak a peek. They might do that anyway, being the curious children they were, eager for adventure and not always knowing their limits, but at least that way, they would know there would be _consequences_ for disturbing the guests before they were ready.

He thought about what would happen if some of the more eager—demanding—students happened to catch any of the visitor's off-balance and imagined the resulting, instinctive—but no less lethal—actions that would follow.

He would hate to have that floo call.

"I'll let the Hogwarts' house elves know to make a big enough lunch and keep it warm for them." He said genially. Weasley gave him a polite smile, but shook his head.

"No need, Headmaster."

"But surely, they'd be hungry after the travel, I'm assuming, since I noticed that both Miss Granger and Mister Malfoy-Black seemed famished once they came through. It would be no trouble at all and the house elves would appreciate the work. They're always complaining we don't give them enough work."

Dumbledore shrugged lightly as if to say, "Only a house elf would complain about not having enough work, right?"

"I'm sure they do. But both I and the others would prefer to let our own house elves prepare our meals and any of the other things they usually do around here. I don't mean to offend but we'd feel a whole lot more comfortable that way."

Weasley looked apologetic but firm. He would not be swayed. Dumbledore gave his own little sigh at the headache he knew he'd have by the end of the night, placating the house elves under his employ and forbidding them from helping the their guests. It'd be tiring and frustrating because no house elf could bear _not_ to help wizards but he would have to try because he knew the unspoken words underlying Weasley's request.

_Don't push us or we'll push back—hard. You might not like what happens when we do._

So he simply told Weasley where the rooms were located and watched them for a little bit to make sure they had things well in hand, observing two other groups come through—children wearing similar attire as Evans and Weasley, with the exception of certain childish adornments, looking around in awe—and returned to his office to work on some paperwork he had neglected so far.

No matter what happened in life, there would always be some kind of paperwork to go with it.


	8. wondering

_No matter what happened in life, there would always be some kind of paperwork to go with it._

Later—_much later_—when most of the students were asleep and the prefects were on patrol, he returned to the Great Hall.

He observed members of the 'Security Force' stationed at various points around the walls of the Great Hall and the house elves patiently waiting to receive more of their people. They had moved some of the tables near the portal and had laid down simple, but hearty meals on it, interspersed with what he recognized as potions vials. No doubt they contained some kind of restorative or nutritional properties; he remembered reading about how most everyone were still trying to wean themselves off of rations and various potions meant to keep you alert and aware—necessary during war but almost counterproductive in the troubled, but much less chaotic years that followed.

At that very moment, rainbow colors swirled in a maelstrom and lightning sparked, and the next group appeared.

He watched long enough to take a quick look at who came through but didn't bother to stay and introduce himself. He rather doubted they'd appreciate or trust him, lurking as he were, even if he _was _Headmaster of this school. He turned around and walked back to his rooms. He wasn't ready to go to sleep yet—a Headmaster's work is never done—but he thought he might take a break and read one of those potions journals that Severus sometimes sent him with certain articles marked, barely legible writing in the margins, wanting to know what his thoughts were on some new invention or another.

* * *

The next day he woke up to find himself face down on his desk, though he couldn't remember when that happened exactly, with the papers for proposed Potions/Transfiguration Class stuck to his face. There were crushed bits of lemon sherbets peppered though his beard and what he recognized by smell alone—Ogden's Finest Whiskey—had somehow stained his robes all the way through to his nightgown.

The mirror-Dumbledore across from him in his private room looked him up and down in disapproval, tsking about the state of his attire and reminding him that he was about to be late for breakfast.

'_What time is it?'_

Dumbledore glanced down at his own watch and stared for a minute in disbelief, and then moved the fastest he had done since his long-ago duel with Gellert and his first contact with the Remnant. He spelled himself clean, drunk a vial of Pepper-Up, changed into clean clothes and hurried to the Great Hall.

He was already ten minutes late, any later and he wouldn't be able to make up some excuse about being "fashionably late".

* * *

Professor Evans observed with no so small about of amusement Headmaster Dumbledore's late arrival. She noted with some satisfaction that he may have looked decent enough on the surface but if you looked further, it was easy to see the tell-tale signs of someone who had just woken up and had hurried to make it to breakfast.

She shook her head fondly. _'Only pudding could make Dumbledore rush to Breakfast, when he would usually wait until the last moment and reveal himself, like Merlin—or Houdini—dispensing his 'words of wisdom' for the day…sometimes he even remembers to make the proper announcements.'_

She could no more help the amused little smile on her face than she could help passing her share of the pudding aside to the Headmaster, causing his eyes to twinkle brighter and give her a dopey smile in return.

'_Honestly, you're such a child sometimes, Dumbledore.'_ And she let that thought slip from behind her mental shields, knowing he would hear. She sat primly, appearing only to be enojying her breakfast, nibbling on her buttered toast.

In answer, he ate his pudding with positively obscene sounds of pleasure—causing a light blush to dust her cheeks—making sure to especially catch her eyes when he made a little up-and-down motion, like parents did with babies who refused to eat their food.

She didn't bother to hide the roll of her eyes and gave a disdainful little sniff, as though this was all beneath her, though they both knew she enjoyed these little games more than she would ever admit. Sometimes, they were the only good things about her day—having to deal with students who thought they didn't need muggle studies or thought to prank her or simply didn't think a muggle had any right to teach in a magical school—well, let's just say that her classes often left her with a headache, if not the urge to wring the necks of those infuriating little snots.

She knew now why Severus had refused to teach ever again, even a single class, after that first disastrous summer session no one would speak to her about. He had given her enough details to frighten her about having to teach teenagers—though it didn't stop her still from going ahead with her plans and revamping Muggle Studies—but he never told her the whole story. Not even Dumbledore would tell her and that told her it was either very embarrassing for all the parties involved or it was so terrible no one wanted to scar her for life.

She bet it was the former and that Severus had simply forced them all to vow to secrecy, threatening to make them into potions ingredients if they so much as thought to tell on him.

Yes, that was most likely the reason. Still. What were friends for, if not to laugh hysterically at the stupid things other friends did and share their own stupid stories? Heavens knew she had plenty of her own to tell. And a lot of her stories these days centered on the pranks her students played on her that she hadn't figured out in time, which she knew Severus would enjoy and thoroughly mock her for.

She took a delicate bite of an orange slice as she considered the excited murmuring of the students sitting before her, not at all unsubtle in the way they kept glancing at the Head Table—even the Slytherins—for some kind of clue about the visitors.

She amused herself with what the students would come up with, curious about what the visitors were really like and wondered how many of them had imagined a similar being like the one that first came through.

But she didn't waste her time with putting any serious effort behind her wonderings—no need to take her mind into the warped and barren wasteland that was the mind of a teenager.


	9. rest

_But she didn't waste her time with putting any serious effort behind her wonderings—no need to take her mind into the warped and barren wasteland that was the mind of a teenager._

For the next few days after their arrival, there was silence; their guests had sequestered themselves within their rooms and had not once come out. Because they did not even attend meal times, the Headmaster could only guess that their house own house elves were taking care of that. Except for a few short messages passed on by the house elves, he had had no contact with them.

He would have worried more but Weasley and Evans—who didn't so much as speak to anyone after that first explosive meeting between him and Umbridge—had assured them that they would be spending some time adapting to their new environment.

He was told in no uncertain terms that any attempts to contact them, either personally or through the use of any intermediary such as the house elves and the school owls, would not be welcomed. More to the point—might not make it through the experience alive.

He had taken that warning to heart and forbidden all school owls, including the student's own, from going anywhere near the suite where they were staying. He reminded the house elves that no matter what anyone threatened them to do, only he had the authority to order them about, even if normally, he shared some of that authority with the students of the school for convenience's sake.

He had all the reason to believe, especially after Evans' actions, that any kind of unwelcome behavior would be ruthlessly deal with. So he left them alone and made sure that no one else, student or staff, bothered them either.

He _really_ did not want to have that floo call.

* * *

Instead, he used that time to have that promised staff meeting and explained some things about their guests, assuring his staff that no, they would not be any danger to the students, despite the disaster that was the Ministry's attempt at 'welcoming' the Remnant.

He also listed a few things not to do in the presence of their guests, including making _any_ threatening moves towards them—lest you be considered a threat and dealt with accordingly by their war-time standards.

"Remember, they have only very recently come out of a war that not only devastated the Wizarding World but touched the Muggle World as well."

He made sure to tell them of their guest's preference not to use the term "muggle" as well. He was unsure how firm they were in opposition of the word but didn't want to take any chances, in case any muggleborns in their group took offense at that.

Worse, if Granger, who told him she was muggleborn when he had asked out of curiosity—not without a lot of scorn, explaining to him that it was considered rude to do so and brought up many bad memories besides—took particular offense to that, he was not sure if the fall-out would be worth the price of refusal. Or someone's curiosity as to why.

Though three others led the Remnant alongside, it was she who took the lead and the others seemed quite content to follow her lead. Which seemed to suggest that they preferred it that way. The way they interacted with each other was proof enough of their closeness to caution him when dealing with her.

If her almost-Slytherin nature wasn't enough to do so.

"Do not make mention of the Ministry—'less it is of your dislike or dissatisfaction with them, for the Remnant hold no love for them—and of course, I am not _promoting _such a view but keep it in mind, nonetheless."

He did not want to see Evans—or anyone else in their group who held the same inclinations, which he suspected included all of them—in action again.

"Please do not try to contact them until I have given permission to do so; they have informed me that they wish to take a few days to rest from their travel and settle in. All school owls have already been forbidden from doing so without my authority and the house elves have likewise been instructed. If anyone insists on circumventing my orders in such a way and attempts to contact them, in person or otherwise, I have also been told that they will not be held accountable for their actions, following the violation of their privacy."

To impress upon them all—_especially_ those professors too young to have understood or remembered the war and those too curious for their good—he made sure to let just a little bit of his aura escape his control.

He had been told that it felt like a heavy blanket had settled on their shoulders, boring down on them with each second that passed. He was glad to see some of them shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Good. This last thing he had to speak about would make too many of them uncomfortable regardless of what he said.

"There is something about Evans that you all must know: He is a parseltongue."

He almost wished that he had not sent out most of his staff to escort the guests home or help transfer the injured to St. Mungo's—only Petunia and Filius had stayed to see the spectacle Evans made of Umbridge, and consequently his ability to speak to snakes—and they said not a word now, smugly content to let him handle the situation.

Immediately, cries of shock and dismay rang out.

Dumbledore used all the influence of his titles, his defeat of Gellert, and his respect as a former teacher, well regarded by his former students—some of whom were among his staff—to calm them down and so did not notice that Riddle and a few others did not react with the same fear and loathing as the others.

* * *

Professor Riddle allowed himself one long blink but gave no other sign of his surprise. Behind the neutral expression on his face, however, his thoughts raced.

_'A parseltongue. Here. At Hogwarts.'_

And in his heart, wonder and desire and _relief_ bloomed.

_'Like me.'_

* * *

Professor Black and McGonagall exchanged knowing glances.

They might not have thought Evans to be a parseltongue, but some traits had made them wonder if he wasn't sorted into Slytherin. His actions a few days ago against Umbridge aside—not all Slytherins were as subtle as they'd hoped, or at all proving the claim of their sorting—cunning and guile and secrets shone from his eyes.

His well-deserved contempt for the Ministry was also a running theme—though by no means the only ones to feel so—among the Slytherins, who used the Ministry for their own means and respected them less for it. Slytherins respected those who could not only realize they were being manipulated, but resist it and manipulate in turn as well—it was a mark of skill, necessary and useful for the political positions most of their House wielded.

And yes, the others, Weasley and Granger and Black, interested them as well but there was something about Evans that drew them to him.

Something…familiar.

* * *

Professor Flitwick did not bother to speak out against Evans or question Dumbledore's decision—and sanity—in allowing Evans and his people to stay.

He simply leaned back comfortably in his chair, adjusting the cushion underneath him, and observed. Concerns about the students' safety—and their own—were raised. Requests for more details about their guests were many. And several questions about what parseltongue was, for those who came from the muggle world and didn't know what the fuss was all about.

He wryly noticed that they were more than happy to speak of the "muggle-hating, blood-thirsty" founder of Slytherin being a parseltongue and that all those who had the ability turned out to be Dark or became Dark Lords in time.

_'How disappointed would they be,'_ he thought, _'to find out that Slytherin was a normal wizard of his time; distrustful and rightly suspicious of the of witches and wizards entering the school from families that had never had a drop of magical blood. He must have been resentful of all the time they had to spend teaching them things most wizarding child knew before they even entered Hogwarts—those that didn't refuse them or think they were possessed by "the devil"—too. And all of this with the witch-hunts happening—he may well have thought that some, if not all, of those children were spies sent by their families or the Church to lead them back to the school.'_

Flitwick considered the quill in his hands, rolling it back and forth. _'And if they had found it…'_ His hands shook, as memories of hateful words and sharp blades danced before his distant eyes, _'Even muggles would be able to see Hogwarts if they were determined enough. The damage they could have caused—no matter what spells were used—had there been enough of them. And the children, the children…they would never have survived the Church's "exorcisms".'_

With all the noise around him, no one noticed the snap of the quill in his hands.

* * *

By the time Dumbledore had assuaged their fears and doubts, he was exhausted. He barely had the energy to dismiss them with a wave of the hand. Some of the teachers had stayed, having thought of more questions to ask, but he made his excuses and beat a hasty retreat.

For the rest of that night, he stayed in his private rooms, hidden behind his office, refusing all communications with the outside world.

He wondered if this was how his guests had felt; coming through the portal and realizing that their host must be curious to learn more about them and their world, and barrage them with questions they had neither the patience or energy to answer.

So it was that he was annoyed when a house elf appeared before him with a note in his hands and was ready to dismiss it before he noticed that this was no Hogwarts' elf.

The eyes that squarely met his own instead of lowering to the ground in submission, uncomfortably reminding him that with all his knowledge of esoteric and obscure magics, he knew it was only by their willful submission to wizards—for the magic that kept them alive—that they did not rebel against their masters; that they did not stand as equals with wizards.

So much time had passed that he doubted many knew or cared, or would let such knowledge stop them from treating them as slaves.

The straight back and calm stance, in contrast to the hunched-over little thing that always made pity bubble up—too much like Ariana, timid and frightened by everything—was shocking.

Most visibly different of all was the _clothes_ that it wore.

Did this mean that these elves followed and served the Remnant of their own free will or did they simply wear them because their masters had ordered them to? Dumbledore made a mental note to find out. It would be best to know whether these house elves were bound to the same secrecy as most elves were to their masters or whether they could be coerced to speak. Partly out of concern for the privacy of his guests, but partly out of his own curiosity about whether he could find out some things through them.

He was still human after all.

"Master Dumbles, sir? I've a message from me Ma'am." He blinked. "From me Ma'am, 'Mione, sir." Dumbledore stared with the same confused state, still unsure, but now suspecting it was talking about—"From me Ma'am, Grang-Er, sir."

He asked to make sure, "You speak of Miss Granger, then? She is the one whom sent this note?"

"Yes, sir."

The elf looked at him as if Dumbledore was mad to ask if there was any other person it could be speaking of. He was glad it didn't say so. He already had a pending headache from the staff meeting tonight; he really didn't want to make it an actual headache by focusing on the strange creature before him too much. So he ignored it and focused on the scrap of muggle paper in his hands.

_Headmaster_

_I apologize for not contacting you sooner but as you can guess, the Remnant need their rest. I have much to organize as well. Please rest assured that we—Malfoy, Weasley, Evans and I—will be sure to make an appearance soon. But for the moment, we are weary and need some time to settle in. Again, we thank you for your hospitality._

_Granger_

It took him a minute as he was considering the note before him but he finally noticed that he had not heard the 'pop' of a house elf leaving. He glanced up. Perhaps sensing the confusion, the elf spoke: "Ma'am told me to stay 'till Dumbles, sir, wrote a reply back, sir."

"Ah."

Dumbledore quickly wrote a reply on a blank piece of parchment:

_Miss Granger_

_Thank you for letting me know that you and your people are well. I am glad to hear that it is only weariness and not some great injury that keeps you from making a public appearance. Though, of course, you need not make any kind of appearance until you feel that you are ready; I understand that you and your people still operate under war-time conditions, as evidenced by your 'Security Force'. Quite an entrance they made._

He paused as he thought about possibly questioning her about the 'incident' that took place that first night with Umbridge or about Evans' parseltongue ability and decided otherwise; if she had not mentioned it in her note, either it was it was something she would rather discuss in person or not at all. And he didn't see any good reason in trying her patience so son—not until he had a closer relationship with her that would allow him such liberties.

Then again, Evans' parseltongue ability was no small matter and needed to be discussed at some point between then. Still. There was no need to rush. The Remnant was here to stay and there would be plenty of other opportunities to question her. He continued:

_And no need to "thank me for my hospitality", my dear, no need at all! Hogwarts is more than happy to accommodate you all. Please be sure to inform me of when, however, so that I may prepare my staff—they are just as excited as the students to meet you!—and have a splendid dinner in preparation._

_I remember well Mister Weasley's words about your preference for your own house elves to prepare you meals, but please allow them one night of rest. My own house elves have besieged me with demands to make at least one meal for you. I confess I do not think I have the heart to refuse them once more. Please let me know if you have need of anything. I look forward to having dinner with you!_

_Dumbledore_

He had briefly considered adding his titles as he usually did to letters to 'important' officials and the like, but thought that Granger and her companions would not only find them unnecessary but bothersome. He had even waffled over adding the title of Headmaster but decided for the same reasons as the former, not to use any titles at all but sign with his last name, as she had done.

Perhaps—hopefully—she would consider it a sign of respect and courtesy.

He rolled the parchment and tied it with a ribbon, sealing it with the crest of the school. He handed it over to the elf and watched curiously as it seemed to assess the worth of his words, hidden on the underside of letter. Finally it gave one brisk nod and simply—

Disappeared.

The same shadow he had seen knock out the Aurors that had guarded Umbridge rose up from beneath the elf and swallowed it whole. The elf had made no move to escape or let out a cry of help. The shadow sank back into the ground it came from, nothing to mark its passage or the elf that had once stood there.

For a moment, Dumbledore seriously thought about researching this 'shadow' that had twice made an appearance now, then shoved all thoughts of the Remnant and anything to do with them away. From a special compartment within his bed post, he pulled out an unmarked case of alcohol. With a casual twist of his magic, he took his first sweet taste of the potion-laced firewhisky.

He would drink until it was the only thing he knew.

* * *

AN: can anyone tell me what they think the 'shadow' that knocked out Umbitch's goons and whisked the elf away was? obviously its something the Remnant can either control or do, but who can guess what it is?


	10. behind stone walls

_He would drink until it was the only thing he knew._

The students may have been too wrapped up in their own little melodramas to notice, but the professors certainly wondered about their absent Headmaster. Many assumed he was busy working through his pile of neglected paperwork, as he was wont to do or had simply gone off on one of his 'adventures'. Either way, it meant that none of them would have to deal with his absurdly cheerful manner in the morning when most of them would rather have been dead asleep in their beds.

The students may be able to get away with only losing a few House points and a detention but any staff who did the same would be hanging themselves by their own rope; Dumbledore somehow always knew when they were lying about being sick and skiving off from work, and would make them supervise detention for the next month or be assigned double-duty on patrol.

They shuddered in remembered horror and promptly went back to their breakfast, determined to enjoy a Headmaster-free morning.

* * *

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes at the scene before her.

The Headmaster sprawled on the ground with a suspicious-looking bottle clutched in his hand, surrounded by a dozen of the same, and snored into the fluffy, tartan coat she had been missing for over a year. Stepping delicately over days-old candy wrappers and catching sight of her initials stitched onto the hem sticking out from under him—confirming her suspicions—she looked upon him through eyes narrowed into slits.

Funny—the Headmaster had told her that he had never seen it before.

She picked up a bottle and took a quick sniff. As she had suspected: dreamless sleep potion mixed with firewhisky—a potent mix. She pulled her back—a _dangerous_ one, she knew—and kicked the bottle against the wall.

It shattered from the force of her kick, the sound of its impact echoing loudly around the room. She was tempted to let the shards reach the sleeping wizard, but allowed this one mercy because it would be the _only_ mercy she would allow him.

With a yowl of pain, the Headmaster scrambled up and away from the loud noise—the sharp ache in his head—what kind of monster—what—

And saw her standing, as stern and disapproving as always.

"Minerva?" He croaked, throat dry.

A glass of pumpkin juice appeared floating before him. With a fervent thanks to the wonderful witch before him, he drank it all in one long swallow. Then coughed, pounding on his chest, as he had drank much too fast. He clutched his head in pain and then noticed the broken bottle and her particularly satisfied smile.

"Why?" He asked plaintively, wondering what he had done to incur her wrath. He hadn't played any pranks on her in months or foisted off his Headmaster's duties on her—did he? He frowned. His mind was so fuzzy from sleep and the effects of his drinking that he wasn't sure.

"Why?" She began—and he heard the fury she was holding back. "Perhaps it is because of this disgraceful mess around me." She waved her arms around her to indicate the candy wrappers, the bottles on the ground and the dirty clothes. "Perhaps it is the mountain of paperwork you dumped on my desk last night while I was on patrol and came in this morning to find." From within her robes, she withdrew roll after roll after roll of parchment—and threw them at his feet.

He began to hastily make his excuses, attempting to placate her to no avail.

"Err, I admit I shouldn't have left you all of my paperwork to do and I certainly shouldn't have drank so much—of course not, what kind of an example would I be?—but Minerva—"

But she ruthlessly cut him off.

"Or maybe," she continues. "Maybe it is because of your absence this morning which resulted in _me _having to deal with the howler from the Minister—your deputy headmistress—as _someone_ was out of commission. The one which required—_demanded_—an immediate response or a faux-investigation would occur that would find this school in violation of some bureaucratic rule or another!"

She stepped closer and hissed, "I had to send out a reply _right that second_ because the bloody owl refused to leave until I did and kept pecking my fingers!"

She thrust her hands forward to show the bloody marks left on her by one stubborn owl.

"_Well_, Albus?"

He fidgeted, unable to come up with anything to say before he suddenly—desperately—started babbling things like "I didn't _plan_ this. Really. No, really." or "Lemon sherbet, Minerva, they're really quite good—no? No. Right, what was I thinking?"

She listened to him talk, not saying a word; he'd _better_ keep talking because so far he wasn't making things any better—just making _himself_ look even more pathetic.

* * *

Her second time here and she still couldn't believe it.

Hermione Granger looked around at her room and wondered. Was this really the same Hogwarts she had left behind—crumbling walls and broken statues—surrounded by a graveyard as vast as the ocean?

Of course, it wasn't.

It was just still so unbelievable that they could have _gone to another world_ and found a Hogwarts whole—a world that hadn't been devastated by war—people who didn't know the _meaning _of war. It was all just a story in the history books for them.

In this world, the only war they knew of—if they even knew of _that_ one—was of the war with Grindelwald and that was so many years before their generation that they couldn't fathom what it was like to _live _in that kind of world.

Even the children she had raised in the safety of Hogwart's walls—picked up from the streets, bought from slavers, trapped in their family manors—even _they _didn't know the horrors of war, only the result of it.

And that was horrible enough, would be _all _they knew of it, if it was up to her. But she had felt the rumblings of discontent; the jealous whispers of those shut out of the Remnants and Sanctuaries and Institutions, and _knew_ that the fragile peace they had cobbled together would not last.

Their world would not have lasted another War.

If they didn't destroy themselves, the non-magical world—once _her _people—would have slaughtered them. By missile or poison or army, they would have killed them all. They wouldn't be satisfied until every last wizard and witch had been killed: Until every bit of magic was stomped out of the world. That was the fear and hate Voldemort had created when he had broken the Secrecy Laws and didn't bother to mask his presence.

With every battle, every new horror he had unleashed on a citizenry that had no protection against that kind of power—he called up an answering darkness within them, pushing them to strip back all the trappings of civilization for _survival_—and he had awakened a sleeping dragon.

Voldemort should have known better than to have brought any magic to their attention. He was a half-blood and grew up in an orphanage as the only wizard there—he should have _known _what would have happened as soon as they realized it wasn't faked or staged or a joke.

He should have known that they would have wanted to find out more and try and control it; and restrict it if they couldn't control it; and then finally seek to destroy it once they realized it couldn't be controlled—that they didn't have the _power_ to control it—and the witch-hunts would return.

And they did…the Hunt—the searching and burning and drowning and stoning—of innocent children who had never even known they had magic until their first accidental bout; of students who could not hide what they were and were tortured for the locations of wizarding enclaves, of magical schools and villages and homes; of the price those wizards too ignorant to know how to disguise themselves well enough to pass for 'normal' suffered.

_They _all paid the price for Voldemort's actions and he hadn't cared—until they came for _him. _They weren't strong enough to destroy his forces in one quick stroke or kill him—no, they couldn't get anywhere near him—but they could ambush his smaller ground troops with specialized magic-seeking missiles and wipe them out in second. They could and did capture careless solitary wizards too drunk or stupid to protect themselves, interrogating them and making successful surgical strikes against unprotected safehouses and the like.

It was just bad luck that sometimes some of those captured happened to be on the Light side and likewise gave up information on _their _safehouses and supply lines.

Her hands gripped the table before her, using the pain to ground her.

She remembered that that was when the experiments began.

* * *

Hidden in the darkness of the corridor and concealed in his dark green cloak, Harry stood outside their rooms and listened to her cry.

He stood so still none would have seen him if not for the glaring emerald eyes staring out from the shadows that had _dared_ anyone to disturb her, if and when they had come down to see her for some reason or another.

Only Malfoy, who had come by with a stack of lists and documents in his arms had seen him and had not fled. Instead, he spelled the ground dust-free and sat down against wall, concentrating intently on the papers before him. When the next trespasser had come by, Malfoy had only to sneer and speak a few sharp words before they went away, and he returned his gaze back on the work he had to finish.

Harry did not thank him and Draco did not bother asking why he should have had to turn anyone away in the first place, as most people would have done: they simply existed in that corridor for one purpose—to keep all intruders out—and nothing else for the moment mattered but that.

* * *

When she was done crying, making sure that she looked presentable enough—Harry wouldn't care one bit if she was covered in snot and tears, but _she_ would—she unlocked the door.

She wasn't surprised to see Harry enter moments later or for Malfoy to follow behind; she had felt Harry's presence through their bond and had scheduled a meeting with Malfoy for tonight.

He held a bunch of papers she probably needed to read and look over, and she was grateful for it.

She needed the long hours of going over lists of necessary supplies; urgent messages; notices of new Familes that'd formed, wishing to be added to the Registry; requests for an audience with the Council—to keep her mind off of memories better left alone.

She was glad of the searching glance Harry had given her to find no pity in them. He gave her a quick kiss on the nose and nuzzled his face against her cheek. She giggled, momentarily distracted and nuzzled him in return. He gave her a cute little growl and nipped her chapped lips, licking them gently—

"As much as I don't mind the two of you being, well _you two_, I would still very much appreciate it if you'd let me know if this is going to turn into a snog session."

Harry growled at Malfoy, the sound coming from deep within his core.

"Yes, yes, growl back at you, too. Now, there's a few discrepancies in one of our supply lists that'd I'd like for you to take a look at…" He waved a sheet of parchment in front of her face.

She snorted.

"You should be glad Harry considers you to be something of a friend, Malfoy, or he would have done more than growl at you, you know. He's cursed people for less."

"Yes, I _know_. But that's no reason for me to let your honeymoon ruin my deadline, is it? You _did _say that you wanted the list of possible relocations by tonight?"

The frown that curled her lips was answer enough.

"You're doing it _now_? Malfoy, I asked you to get on that before we even _left_—why is this only getting down _now_?"

"I _know._" He gave a tired sigh then. "But Isabella was being fussy—I don't think traveling through alternate realities is at all child-friendly, you know—and she was still a little sick from the cold that went around a few weeks ago." He scowled. "Stupid little snots bringing _their _sick little selves near _my_ daughter. Wait 'till I get my hands on them…!"

She shared an amused glance with Harry; Draco had been saying the same thing for the last week and a half but he hadn't done anything to the ones who had spread the sickness, despite knowing exactly who they were.

He was _such_ a teddy bear, though he would never admit it and would deny it if anyone claimed otherwise.

"Is she feeling better now? I know that she's still a bit weak but she looked fine when we came through…" Hermione trailed off, concerned. Harry laid a comforting arm around her. She cuddled into him, feeling safe and loved as always in his embrace. Draco smiled with genuine happiness.

"She's fine now. I was worried the trip through had brought back her cold but it turned out to be nothing." He paused. "And how's _your_ son doing?" He asked in return, remembering that he wasn't the only one that'd come through the portal with a child.

"A bit tired and annoyed that he can't wander around as freely as he's used to but he's fine otherwise. I caught him trying to sneak out the entranceway last night, in fact, and had to place a special locking charm keyed to my magical signature just for him. Poor Liz," she sighed, referring to their personal house elf, "She was in such a state, looking for him."

She shook her head in disbelief. "Somehow, Severus managed to trick her by copying his magical signature on a toy and leaving it in his place. Luckily, Severus isn't very good at copying things yet—much less something as advanced as a magical signature—and after a few minutes it disappeared. Liz felt that and immediately went to check on him. When she found him gone…well, we left it to him to explain why he had 'betrayed' her."

"You didn't!" He gasped out, desperately trying not to laugh out loud.

He imagined how Severus must have stared at the elf, wide-eyed and guilty, faced with her tears and recrimination. The very elf, after all, that had kept him alive when his own mother had died just days after giving birth to him, already weak from malnutrition and made weaker by the childbirth. Oh, how his excuses must have seemed so feeble then!

Sometimes the best way to teach one's child was through experience: Severus would learn the very important lesson of the consequences of betrayal, though not as damaging as it may have been in this instance. But it never hurt to start young. After all, age did not discount betrayal and retaliation was swift and brutal.

Better he learn now than be faced with no alternatives but death or worse…for the Remnant did not tolerate traitors.

* * *

The three of them spent some time talking about their experiences as parents and going over any necessary documents that needed to be filed; she had tried to keep instill _some_ order into the chaos that was the Aftermath and documenting everything seemed to be one way to do that.

Ron joined them later, after his last shift for the night and brought drinks.

"You always have the best presents!" She'd exclaimed.

It was late when they all retired for bed, the sky just hinting at the clear, blue skies of the day ahead.

* * *

"…everywhere she walked, the ground burned; she slayed with one quick thrust of her sword, dripping with the blood of her Enemies."

"Because she had a heart of fire—crying out for vengeance, for the children lost to her—she was pitied by the Spirits and gifted with the ability to wield that fire. Now the flames which had burned inside of her were given earthly form. With this power, she hunted all those who had had a hand in her tragedy.

"All those Marked by evil were now marked for Death.

"It is said that only one escaped her wrath but that it might have been better to have died by her blade—for his fate is far crueler than mere Death—he who lay bound to the Forbidden Lands."

Around her, the children gasped in fear and shock. Minder Kendra hid a smile—she could practically hear them thinking, '_the Forbidden Lands were _forbidden!_'_—and mentally agreed. Passage through those lands meant being prey to Slavers, Testors, Mercenaries and any other number of nasty things. Only a fool—or a very skilled individual—could get through safely.

"But though her vengeance was now wrought—her mission fulfilled—she was left with an emptiness that brought her to her knees. What was left for her in this world? She asked herself. Indeed, what more could there have been for a witch who had thrown herself into vengeance and bloodshed, leaving behind a Family?"

They leaned forward, squirming eagerly on their cushions.

"And a Spirit answered thus: "_You have honored us, but we have never desired this. We beg you remember—see that there are those who need you still." _And when she listened to the voices carried on the wind, she heard them: _'Mother, mother, return to us! We live and we breathe—we need you.'_

"And so she flew to them with wings of fire—love and hope and devotion now the flames that burned in her heart. And when she appeared before them—more creature than witch, stained with life's blood—they embraced her without fear.

"They breathed life back into that scarred and fearsome soul—

"And she was Mother, Matriarch of Clan Weasley…but deep within her, the Dragon laid patiently waiting until a time when vengeance once again burned in her heart."

She clapped her hands and the candles floating around them suddenly lit themselves.

"Now that's enough for tonight. Time to go to sleep!" She ignored their grumbling and shepherded them all back to the Inner Sanctum—not that they'd moved too far away from them in the first place—and cast the usual protective and alarm spells.

Then she took her position outside the door to guard them, wand ready in her lap and all traces of the playful Minder gone. In her place was Mercenary Stone, Soldier of the Guard, determined to protect the vulnerable children behind her. Shadows flickered at the edges of her vision, knowing her magic had manifested to form a lethal shield around her.

Let them come—she would guarantee that none would be left alive to try again.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione woke up to sweet kisses and gentle touches. She sighed, humming in pleasure, still more than half-asleep and said drowsily—

"So what did you do this time?"

The hands paused and then continued, but that hesitation was enough to confirm her suspicions and she reluctantly opened her eyes. Laying face down on their bed, she turned her head to the side, but refused to move any other part of her body. If they went over this quickly enough and it wasn't anything too bad, then she would sneak in another hour of sleep.

_'Mmm….sleep.'_

"Nothing. Why would you think that?"

She snorted.

"Harry, I love you, I do—but you never ambush me like this so early in the morning without some reason for it—and usually it's because you've done something you think will annoy me."

"Maybe I just felt you deserved to be woken up like this every once in a while."

"And maybe you should tell me what's going on before I hear it from someone else."

He sighed and she braced herself for the news—it could have been anything from misplacing some important document to having ruined her breakfast.

"Dumbledore knows I'm a parseltongue."

She groaned.

"_Harry_."

"I know."

"_Please_ tell me it was just him?"

"…him and a couple of Ministry employees, plus Professor Evans and Flitwick?"

She had to haul herself up to lean her head back against the headboard for this one, rubbing the last of her blessed sleep out of her eyes. "And that's all you did?"

"Well…there was an…'incident'." When she narrowed her eyes at him, he hastened to explain. "Umbridge was there being her stupid self and then she tried to get me to treat her like an Ally, all 'the Ministry might not want to be friends with such scary people'—like I care about the Ministry in any way—and she just wouldn't shut up. I might have lost control."

"We've talked about your anger issues."

"We have."

"I thought you were in control now."

"I am!"

She _looked _at him.

"Umbridge, Hermione—Umbridge!"

He protested, knowing it was a weak argument to make even as he did it.

"I hate her too, but that doesn't mean I would have given_ Dumbledore_ any ammunition to use against me—granted this one isn't as far gone as the other, but they're not that different—and something like this, like you being a parseltongue, could change our situation entirely if we let it. I doubt the stigma of being a parseltongue isn't just as strong here as it was back in our world."

The only reason they'd gotten over it in _their_ world was because they'd no other choice; it was a good weapon in the War and the Aftermath was no safer, so it'd been a useful skill to have. Still, these last two years had been relatively peaceful and people had remembered—they hadn't forgotten exactly, more like deliberately set aside the thought for another day—that Voldemort was a parseltongue, too. And a Slytherin.

She sighed, "Tell me the rest of it and let me see if I spin it into something manageable—"

"She deserved it, she did—" He muttered petulantly.

She rolled her eyes.

"So long as you didn't actually kill anyone…"

She listened to the rest of the 'incident'—making a note to ask Ron how _he'd_ seen it happen, not that she thought Harry was lying to her, but sometimes he focused so much on what was right in front of him that he didn't catch every detail—and reminded herself to send another note to Dumbledore.

If she didn't love him as much as she did…well, she wouldn't leave him or anything as dramatic as that, but maybe she would kick him out of the bed for a few days. She thought about that for a moment and added, _'Or maybe just the one.'_

The sex was just too good to go without for more than a day or two.

* * *

Mercenary Stone looked up two sets of footsteps headed her way. When they turned around the corner, she already had her hand up and ready to cast any number of spells, from a mildly debilitating hex to one that removed one's vital organs.

"Halt." She barked. "State your name, rank and purpose."

They straightened their already-stiff postures and dutifully answered.

On the right, tall and thin, hair a wild tangle around his scarred face, he spoke: "Gregory Jones, Auror of the Guard; to safeguard the peace, stand watch and defend the Vulnerable, Ma'am."

To his left, hair fashioned into rainbow-colored spikes, his partner spoke: "Melanie Smith, Auror of the Guard; to safeguard, stand watch and defend the Vulnerable, Ma'am."

Stone nodded in approval, some of the wariness leaving her and turned to walk away, assured that it was alright to leave the children in their care. As she was about to turn the corner, she yelled back:

"Oh, I told them the story of the Dragon's Beginning, so be ready for the lot of them begging you for more of where that came from."

She smirked at the twin groans of frustration she heard behind her.

"And _don't_ feed them sweets again just because you think they're adorable—there's a reason no self-respecting parent gives kids sweets so early in the morning, you know—not unless you want an irate Commander breathing that Weasley dragonfire down our necks!" She added.

The two "No, Ma'am!"s that echoed down the corridor told her that they had heard her warning, even if they might not follow it.

She stepped through the threshold into the dining room. She was practically drooling as the smell of breakfast came to her. It had been a _long_ night for her: The children had demanded story after story until the one about the Dragon had finally satisfied them—too captivated by the story to realize how close to bedtime it was.

She was grateful for that; they usually sulked and made a huge fuss about it.

"The usual, Ma'am?" The server asked from behind the counter.

"The usual, Freedman." She replied, eager to start on her breakfast.

If Jones and Smith were still foolish enough to give in to the whims of the children they were _supposed_ to be guarding, then they should know to ready themselves for a talking-to from the Commander, himself.

* * *

_Headmaster_

_I send you this note so soon after the first, not to inform you of our readiness to face the student's curiosity but to beg your pardon; my Bonded has only just informed me this very morning of the circumstances which occurred on our return. _

_Rest assured that he has been thoroughly chastised for his omission._

_I am sure you are curious about his ability to speak to snakes and I can tell you with utmost sincerity that he is _not_ Dark—he is Grey, as most of the Remnant are. War did not allow for petty things like morality to stand in the way of our sheer _survival_. _

_Evans and I are childhood friends and I have known of his parseltongue abilities for long enough to know that it does not induce madness, as some rumors say was the cause of Slytherin's demise. They are merely a skill unique to him and a useful one at that! Some things would not have been possible or some battles lost, were it not for his parseltongue abilities. _

_I remind you, not because I think you have forgotten but perhaps because your memories have clouded your perception, as sometimes happens, that abilities do not make one Dark or Light (or Grey)—their choices and their convictions do. _

_Granger_

* * *

_Miss Granger_

_I _did _lose myself in memories that have no bearing on the present reality or the circumstances of which we speak of. _

_I thank you for the timely reminder._

_However, I and the others would be much assured, I think, if we were able to have a face-to-face discussion about Evans' parseltongue abilities, preferably before you present yourself to the students, so that I may have some time to calm a few of the legitimate concerns of those on my staff. _

_If Evans would be willing to answer a few questions, may we meet this Friday evening, say 6 O'clock in my office? _

_Dumbledore_

* * *

"Did you hear that Stone told the story of the Dragon's Beginning again?"

Hermione nudged Ron, smirking at him.

He rolled his eyes and grunted. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "I heard. I don't know why they aren't tired of it yet. What is it, the third—fourth time now?"

"Not even," Harry said, clearly amused. "This is the _fifth_ time."

Draco snickered, sipping at his goblet. "I thought you'd be happy about being famous, even if your mum's the reason why."

Ron sighed tiredly. "Yeah, well, I don't mind them telling the story so much as what happens after; interrupting my _training_ for Merlin's sake and asking me _question_ after_ question_ after—"

Hermione slapped her hand over his mouth.

"Alright already—we get it."

"_I _still don't get it." Draco added.

Ron looked at him in disbelief. "Malfoy," he said. "Do _you_ like it when people ask about the Rogues and expect you to answer every bloody question even if they're a bit personal and you've got better things to do than satisfy someone's curiosity and they _just won't leave you the hell alone?_"

A thoughtful expression crossed his face.

"Point taken." He cocked his head to the side. "I never thought of it that way."

"I know you didn't. You're just self-centered like that."

"Well, what _isn't_ there to love about me?" He preened.

"Honestly, I have _no_ idea how Luna puts up with you."

Draco gave his own little smirk then.

"Well, Weasley, when two people love each other very, very much—"

"Shut it, Malfoy—"

"What, can't get over the fact that _I_ have a sex life and _you_ don't—"

Harry slammed his hands down—_hard_—on the table.

"Shut up, the both of you—you're giving Hermione a headache." The scowl on his face disappeared when he looked at his Bonded. "Want me to smack 'em around a bit? Would that make you feel better, love?" He cooed to her.

Malfoy and Weasley shared identical looks of disgust—and nervousness. They were friendly with Evans but that didn't mean he _wouldn't_ do something…regrettable…if Granger asked him to.

Hermione didn't stop rubbing her fingers against her brows—there _was _a dull throbbing and the fight hadn't made it any better—and looked at him gratefully. "They _were_ a bit noisy," she said. But hastily added, when it looked like Harry was about to jump over the table to strangle them or something. "_But_, so long as they don't shout next to my ears, I'm fine."

"Thank Merlin for that," muttered Malfoy.

Weasley nodded, thankful as well.

"And remember what we're working on?"

Immediately a mulish expression crossed his face and it seemed that for a moment, he wasn't going to answer her, but he grudgingly answered: "Anger management."

The scowl was back on his face.

Weasley and Malfoy snickered and this time they were not even fazed by the implicit threat in his gaze, as the very _idea_ of Harry taking _any_ kind of anger management class or the like was just too funny not to laugh about.

"I know it's bothersome, Harry, but it's something you need to do. Something you promised to do. And not just for me but for Severus and everyone else who's counting on us."

The scowl didn't go away, in fact, it looked worse.

"I just don't see how the way I feel, is in any way, relevant to my leadership abilities—or lack thereof, for that matter."

Hermione pursed her lips, ancient memories prodding her own anger awake.

"Harry," she said, her eyes sparking. "How many times have treaties fallen because a certain someone felt he just _had_ to say something? How many times have potential allies simply refused to meet with us because they knew or found out _you_ were part of the delegation?"

Harry wavered, just the slightest bit, under her anger—and the truth of her words.

'_Good,'_ she thought. _'Sometimes he is so focused on protecting me, he forgets that I'm no fragile Pureblood girl, needing his attention every second. I'm a survivor, just like him.'_

"Harry," she tried again. "Anger isn't bad exactly and you certainly need to vent sometimes, we all do, but it has its downfalls. This place…this world…doesn't need our anger. Our anger was born from a struggle they can hardly imagine, much less understand and if we let it, it would ruin everything."

"I agree."

Ron smoothed the down the creases of his robes and didn't look up at any of them, but they all turned to him and waited. Ron never joined any of Harry and Hermione's 'arguments', either for the fun of it or seriously, but when he did, it was because he had something important to say, or felt that there was something he _should_ say. And since he hardly ever refused anyone, much less argued against them—except in his position as Commander of the Guard and even that, a position for which he was well-suited and had earned, still took him quite a while to get used to—they listened.

They always did.

"I…can't say I don't understand where you're coming from, Evans. Because I do. You know I do." A wry smile accompanied his words. "But I have to be honest—I'm tired of War. I'm good at it, I can admit that now, and I _do _feel _something _when I'm in the middle of it all—nothing but Blood, Blade and Wand—but afterwards, I always feel empty. I try and forget and the next time, the next battle, I do. But after, without fail I—"

He breathed in sharply, gripping his robes tightly.

"I never can. Get that feeling back. Only in blood, in death-dealing, did I ever feel that way and I can't—can't become like _Her_." He said, abruptly changing the conversation. No one had to ask who he was talking about. There was only one person he referred to as simply 'Her'.

His mother, Molly Weasley, Matriarch of Clan Weasley—the Dragon.

"They tell stories about it but they don't know what it was really like, to see her like that. She was—_ravaged_—and there was almost nothing human about her. It was like the magic, the lives she had taken, had stolen pieces of her in return. And she—she—couldn't even remember us at first; she just knew we had meant something to her once. That whole 'breathe the life back into her" crap, that took _years_ to happen and even now she doesn't…"

He swallowed hard.

"Sometimes I think she wants to go back. No—I know she does. She looks at the skies and any open flame around her always burn brighter. Always. She's never forgotten and there are days she refuses to leave the bed, no matter how much we beg, like she can't live without the Blood, like _we _weren't enough—her Family—and it hurts, but I see how much _more_ it hurts my father. He _loved_ her, loves her still. But it's not the same—_she's_ not the same.

"She isn't the woman he had fallen in love with and married and had children with. That woman died a long time ago. And you know what makes it worse?"

They knew. But they wouldn't say it aloud; some things aren't meant to be spoken. And _this_—his father?—is one of them.

The father who had died protecting his wife in battle, as his last act of love.

His death had been the final blow against a woman who had already lost so much. Her only daughter had been brutally beaten and raped; she had barely survived and when she had discovered she was pregnant, killed herself by poison. One son was permanently disabled and possibly infected with lycanthropy as well, another was missing and yet another had been severed from their twin. And Ron…Ron was on the very frontlines of battle with Harry, as always, loyal to the end.

She lost control.

And in her madness, her grief, she did something no one before her had ever done—she tamed the Fiendfyre that had raged on the battlefield, wielding it with deadly skill against the Enemy.

It was just one more tragedy for the Weasley Clan that her husband, still contemplating the choice before him—to travel on to the afterlife or to stay as a ghost—witnessing her grief and the destruction she wrought, chose to stay and watch over his family.

And so he did—through her madness, her Hunt, her return and her rehabilitation—he had watched and guarded, willingly binding himself to an eternity of only ever watching, never again able to sleep or embrace the woman he loved…ever.

"The fact that he won't—_can't_—move on until he knows she's better, knowing bloody well that she might not ever be." He snorts. "I don't she ever will be 'better'. Not like before. And he knows this, and he just smiles, and—Merlin! It's so frustrating to watch and I—"

He cut himself off, struggling, obviously, to find the words to say—"And I just can't do that, Evans. I can't let myself get that angry. I can't. I'll lose myself in it, just like _Her_."

He looked up then, when it seemed that Harry was about to interrupt and said, "I can't do that to my Family, Evans, not again. They won't survive a second one—_I_ won't survive a second one."

Harry stared at Ron in shock, just beginning to understand where he was coming from, but still a little bit reluctant to give in so easily—especially as he might consider the whole confession as some kind of emotional manipulation, paranoid as he is—even coming from one of his only 'friends'.

"That's right, Harry."

She placed a gentle hand on his face. Suddenly, it seemed the harsh lines of his face had been softened, smoothed down somehow by her touch. She spoke in a gentle voice, painful in its understanding. "Anger was good for the War—we _needed_ that anger to keep us going when hope wasn't enough anymore—but the War is over. We came here to make a _life_ for ourselves—for our Families, for our _children_—and anger won't help us do that…you _know_ that."

She pleaded, begging him to understand—to honor the chance that fate had given them.

Malfoy spoke then: "She's right, Evans. We needed that anger to fight. We needed it to survive. But the time for anger is over now. If we don't move on—if we don't leave that anger behind in the world we left, let it fester and grow—we'll never be able to get past simply _surviving_ to actually _living_."

Harry shook his head in wonder.

"How did a talk about my _issues_ turn into a talk about the War?"

"Harry—" Hermione started.

"Mate—" Weasley reached forward, as if to set a hand on his shoulder.

"_Evans_—" And Malfoy just _looked_ at him.

Harry held up his hand.

"I know, I know, I'll have to deal with this someday soon—get a real grip on my anger—but I have time." He looked around at all of them. "We _all_ have time. This is a new world, a new beginning, and we can build our new home in peace. No Enemies, no Rogues, no Slavers—just the stupidity of the Wizarding World."

"Oh, is _that_ all?" Malfoy snarked and the conversation turned to lighter, less upsetting topics.

It wasn't forgotten but merely set aside until they could all properly deal with their own anger and "move on", like they all wanted. It'd be so much easier to turn back and just let their anger become their source of strength once more, but they had to let it go—let the desire for peace, for a safe and happy home for their Families, for the Remnant, and all the people under their care—overcome that anger.

* * *

Soon enough, daily life intruded on their table with the first person seeking an audience with the Council for some grievance or another, his adversary not far behind. Later, when Hermione showed Harry the letter from Dumbledore, he only made a token argument before giving in.

As they lay down to bed that night, legs and arms tangled together, he held her tight and whispered into her ears, "For new beginnings."

In his dreams, he said the words he could not say aloud: _For the rest of our lives together in this strange, new world. For our children and our children's children. For the peace we fought for and should have known but were denied._

* * *

AN: so what do you all think of it so far? noticed anything i haven't answered either through casual mention, dialogue, memory or otherwise that you're still confused about? review and let me know!


	11. some secrets

_In his dreams, he said the words he could not say aloud: For the rest of our lives together in this strange, new world. For our children and our children's children. For the peace we fought for and should have known but were denied._

* * *

_Headmaster Dumbledore_

_Evans has informed me that he would be amenable to the meeting._

_Granger_

* * *

On Friday night at exactly 6 O'clock, there was a knock on his office door.

Dumbledore was surprised as the portrait had not informed him of anyone coming and the gargoyle did not easily let anyone pass besides. Dumbledore waved the door open, nonetheless. The Remnant had many secrets locked away in their hearts and minds: This was just another question to ask of them and especially of Evans, who had intrigued him from the very beginning.

He was even more surprised to see Granger walking calmly beside him.

"Miss Granger, Mister Evans," he nodded genially. "Welcome. You know Professor McGonagall, Professor Black and Professor Flitwick. I don't think you've met Professor Riddle yet, however, Mister Evans."

Dumbledore indicated the man sitting beside him.

Evans had been tense ever since he had entered the room and now he simply turned those disturbingly serpentine eyes upon the man lounging comfortably on the loveseat. Riddle wore dark green robes with silver swirls—like snakes coiled to strike—that sparkled by the light of the candles. Sitting beside him were Minerva and Sirius, Filius in a cushioned armchair next to them, but Evans paid them no mind. He had eyes only for Riddle.

Riddle nodded politely enough.

"I'm told you and the young woman besides you is two of the four who led Hogwarts after its fall against the Dark Lord, Voldemort?"

There was no hostility, no disdain in Riddle's tone of voice or words, yet Evans replied with scorn: "I thought you were given a copy of the Report—what, too lazy to even read it or are you just that stupid?"

A sharp, "Harry!" didn't keep Evans from looking upon Riddle with all the disgust and anger he had shown Umbridge—and more.

Riddle reacted, as always, with utmost propriety and did not react against the outright hostility Evans had against him with anything but a slow blink of the eyes. Dumbledore knew, however, by the slight twitch of his wand-hand that he was not as unaffected by Evans as he would like them to think. Evan's high position, his parseltongue ability, and the _power_ he carried around with him, visible with every flare of his temper, were something to be wary of.

The smirk Evans threw Riddle told them he had not missed the gesture either, the amusement clear in his eyes to see.

Granger sighed, exasperated.

"Harry," she tried again.

"Hermione," he replied, not taking his eyes off of the man sitting across from him.

"Need I remind you of the talk that we had just last night about a certain _issue_, which you'd promised to work on?"

Evans turned just enough to see her face.

"I am."

"And this," she said, waving her hands between the two of them, Evans and Riddle, "isn't relevant to that discussion?"

"What, I'm supposed to be _nice_ to him?" He asked, outraged. "I'd rather eat slugs."

But he sat down easily enough in the only empty seat, enlarging it with a lazy wave of his wand, to make room for his companion.

"Don't jinx us. We had rats just a fortnight ago, remember?"

Evans made a sound of disgust.

"Oh, do I _ever_."

Dumbledore cleared his throat pointedly.

"Ah," he said. "I was given the assumption that we would be meeting Mister Evans alone…?" He inquired, curiously.

"As you can see and just witnessed, Evans has an anger management problem. I'm here to make sure no more…_incidents_…like the one which occurred at that Ministry are repeated."

He watched in bemusement as she conjured her own tea set, despite the one already on the table before them.

"It's also procedure and good insurance for any one who's in an important position within the Remnant to ever travel alone, even in safe quarters."

She tapped the side of the kettle and it rattled, steam pouring out from the spout.

"Usually Evans or I would be accompanied by a Guard, but as we have each other, well, there's really no need."

She carefully poured out a cup for Evans and herself. "We can take care of ourselves," she explained at his expectant expression.

"I see."

He still thought it was a bit over-the-top but, as he kept reminding himself when dealing with any of the Remnant, he could not ever hope to truly understand the affects of war.

His own experience in war with Gellert was cruel and bloody, yes, but it had not gone on for so long and neither did his world suffer through such a process of rebuilding. There were some followers who'd escaped and some lawlessness left over from war—but the war had never touched the Muggle world nor affected it to such a degree; the Secrecy Laws broken and reaping the consequences of such…all the while dealing with the destruction of the Wizarding World's entire infrastructure...What these young men and women had done, rebuilding their world from such a situation—there were no words to describe both his great sympathy and his never-ending astonishment at their accomplishments.

Not looking at all comfortable to be met with the hard wood when she tried to prop herself on the couch, she promptly added a dozen or so cushions of various sizes and colors with a sharp jab of her wand. She gave a grateful sigh and leaned back, tugging her legs up—cuddling contentedly into the side of the young man beside her.

Evans gave no sign of her doing do, except to tug her closer and place an affectionate arm around her, squeezing her shoulders once.

"Forgive my prying, but are the two of you….?" Dumbledore trailed off, not wanting to ask in case it would offend but curious nonetheless.

Evans opened his mouth to answer, an unhappy curl to his lips, but Granger elbowed him in the side. While he was left clutching himself in pain, uttering a loud "Ow!" in her general direction—which she promptly ignored—she answered for the both of them.

"We're together, if that's what you're asking. Have been for years, ever since—what was it again? It's been so long...but I think it was probably in our fifth year, wasn't it, that we got together?" She looked at Evans but he stubbornly refused to answer. She turned back to Dumbeldore. "I suppose by the standards of this world and in mine before the War, we would be considered engaged."

"Really?" Dumbledore exclaimed.

"Oh yes and apparently no one was surprised either. But I suppose since we've been friends even before Hogwarts that everyone simply assumed we were dating long before we actually were."

"Do they really need to know anything about our relationship, Hermione? It has nothing to do with the contract between our Clans and is frankly—_none of their bloody business._"

Granger rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, Harry. Do you really think they wouldn't have found out sooner or later?"

His expression seemed to suggest that '_yes, they wouldn't have found out sooner or later_.'

Her own expression went more or less along the lines of, _'don't be an idiot_, _Harry, of course they would have_.'

"So when's the wedding, if I may ask?" Sirius interrupted their staring match to say.

As one, they turned toward him with identical confused expressions.

"What are you talking about?" She asked.

Sirius looked back at her with equal confusion.

"The wedding—you know, with the white gown and vows? Family and friends gathered for a momentous event…?" He trailed off. Seeing that they weren't looking any more certain about what he was talking about than before, he added, sighing, "well, since the both of you are more or less muggleborns, do the words: 'in sickness and in health, for poorer or for richer' mean anything to the two of you?"

At once, their confusion cleared and Granger motioned for Evans to answer.

She poured another drink, this time adding drops from a suspicious-looking bottle. Dumbledore guessed it was something a bit stronger than tea, but didn't comment on it. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Minerva purse her lips but was very grateful she didn't say anything either.

Thank Merlin she was feeling a bit more charitable than this morning, as he didn't think Granger would take kindly to anyone scolding her for drinking—she was a grown woman, after all—and the leader of her people besides.

"There isn't going to be one," Evans answered.

"What! Why?" Sirius honestly looked upset about the whole thing, as if not having a wedding was the worst thing imaginable. "There's _always_ a wedding!"

Evans snorted contemptuously.

"For one thing, neither I nor Hermione care too much about ceremonies. And for another, everyone already knows we're together and are going to stay together, 'till 'death do us part' and all that rot. Lastly, what makes you think having a wedding is even _possible_ in the first place, where we come from?"

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore thought that it was only Sirius' genuine confusion that made Evans answer at all, given the impatient look on his face and the absolutely condescending look he sent Sirius.

"Oh I don't know—perhaps it was the utter and complete destruction of the Wizarding World? Or the fact that just stepping outside of a Sanctuary—or wherever you were holing up—was a suicide mission? Or maybe, just maybe, too many people had died, were missing, enslaved or worse for there to make any kind of gathering possible—or justified, in light of the many threats to one's life."

There was an uncomfortable silence after his words and Dumbledore took that opportunity to guide the conversation back to the task at hand, before either tempers flared (Evans) or curiosity moved the conversation beyond his control (Sirius).

"Thank you for taking the time to explain, Mister Evans. We appreciate it very much, but let us not be carried away by our curiosity." He made sure to look pointedly in Sirius' direction as he said this. "And remember the reason for this meeting in the first place."

At once, the conversation became more serious as everyone reminded themselves that learning the personal details of one's lives were good and all for relations, but that some things take precedence over the personal—such as Evan's parseltongue abilities.

They all looked at Evans and Granger expectantly.

"Yes, well, if you _had_ read the Report I'd given you," she said, sounding as if she was not at all sure that they had, "you should have known that snakes, among other animals and magical creatures, were often used in the War—by both sides—and aren't at all remarkable otherwise. They were just another tool of war."

She shrugged and frowned, as if wondering why they were even discussing this in the first place.

But Dumbledore, while acknowledging the fact that yes, the Report had mentioned them in passing; there was no mention of Evans being a parseltongue capable of commanding snake outside of spells, as he'd assumed.

"And yet, you made no mention of his abilities," he said, just the barest hint of accusation in his tone.

"Look, I understand that it come as a surprise but it's just a skill. That's all it is and that's how it was seen—how it was used—and there's nothing else to it."

She sounded reasonable enough, but he, too, had his own reasons for being suspicious of anyone who could speak to snakes and he would not let her limit parseltongue to a mere _ability_.

"A skill that has been known as being primarily aligned to the Darker forces of magic; to those who were Dark and rose as Dark Lords. And as such, something I would have very much appreciated knowing about." At her disagreeable look, he added: "A quick warning would have been enough, if a lengthier explanation was not possible until a later time."

But she was shaking her head and when he made to speak once more, she countered: "Yes, it may have been nice to know, for you and your staff, but it wasn't _necessary_. Why? Because it has no impact on the Contract between us, except in consideration of your Clans' sensibilities."

"_Sensibilities?_" He remarked, indignant on behalf of everyone in Hogwarts who could not speak out for themselves and irritated at Granger's continued insistence—and the excuses she was making—for not informing them about Evans.

She rolled her eyes at _him_, this time.

"_Yes_, your _sensibilities_." She gave him a hard stare. "What else would you call judging an entire group of people, based on the actions of the relatively few witches and wizards who possessed the ability to speak to snakes and used them for evil purposes, compared to the dozens of other witches and wizards around the world who didn't? Who were simply symbols of fertility and immortality; worshipped as protectors and guardians; normal people just living their lives like anyone else?" She retorted harshly, incredulously.

Dumbledore stared back, feeling just the littlest bit discomfited.

"Well?" She snapped.

He almost flinched from the venom in her tone, knnowing from experience there was genuine loathing in her words—no simple dislike of him because of his power or wealth—and reminded himself that he owed her nothing, despite what mistakes or actions his counterpart in their world did. Still, he tread carefully. He wanted their trust as much as he wanted their allegiance; one day very soon, he might need their stength to defend his beloved Hogwarts.

"Even so….even so, I must judge him from what I know and have experienced; from the history known to me and what my research had revealed. And though you are correct that it is unwise and unjust to judge him by the standards of a few, it is also true that my questions and concerns are valid. He may refuse to answer, but I have the right to question him." He replied quietly with conviction. "I have the right."

She did not back down but she nodded, satisfied, and turned to Evans.

"Well, Harry?"

Evans sighed.

"Isn't that exactly what we came here to do?" It was very obviously a rhetorical question, but when it seemed she might answer him, he waved the words away. "Yes, I'll answer."

He looked up at Dumbledore.

"Well, go ahead and ask."

Dumbledore nodded in thanks, it didn't hurt to be polite after all.

"Were you born with the ability?" He asked, v_ery _interested in the answer, as it would tell him whether or not he may have a possible descendent of Slytherin before him.

He wasn't sure yet whether that was a good thing or not, as Evans hadn't shown any signs of insanity—aside from his rather terrifying display with Umbridge. But he had ruthlessly manipulated her from the very beginning and was simply toying with her, Dumbledore knew, so he couldn't consider that the actions of a crazy man, merely one who did not care for Umbridge and wasn't shy about doing something about it, regardless of the consequences. Still. All the records stated that Slytherin's descendants had been cursed and showed that sooner or later, they lost their minds—and magic—or simply disappeared, never to be heard from again.

"That's…not as easy to answer as you'd think." Evans began. "I never knew of a time when I _couldn't_ speak to them. They'd find me to talk with me and some were just drawn to me. The conversation wasn't as interesting as you've no doubt imagined; snakes are animals like any other and only think about hunting for food and finding a mate. It took effort, patience and bribery to get them to do anything else…it helped to use spells but I preferred not to.

"During my third year at Hogwarts, I tried to find out if anyone else in the family had the same ability but as I had no idea who they were…." He shrugged. "I could only find the genealogy charts of old Pureblood families directly descended from Slytherin, some of whom had died off, were missing for decades or were down to their last heirs—most of whom were too old to have fathered me or my parents. So that was a dead end. And there wasn't anything else worth looking into, unless I wanted to go directly to Gringotts and pay the fee to have an inheritance test taken—which was far out of my financial means—or go to the Ministry, who would have simply dismissed me or made my…situation…worse than it already was.

"I wasn't going to take that chance when I had finally made something of a life for myself.

"To be honest, it wasn't ever really that important; I figured that if they had left me at an orphanage when they could have raised me themselves or handed me over to another family they trusted or knew—they weren't worth the time or effort to find them."

"So you're a Pureblood, then?" Sirius asked with disgust.

'_Leave it to Sirius,' _Dumbledore thought, somewhat despairingly, _'to focus on the one thing Evans obviously cares not one bit about and to make it Evans' defining trait, the measure by which he would forever judge Evans by.'_

Evans snorted.

"How horrible you make that sound—considering you're a Pureblood yourself, Black."

"Does that mean you _are_ a Pureblood?"

Sirius insisted in asking, ignoring the slight against himself, considering how many times the same sentiment had been expressed in his presence numerous times.

"No."

"What then?"

"I'm a Half-Blood."

"How do you know?"

"Because my Aunt told me."

So surprised by the turn in the conversation, Sirius was momentarily speechless.

Fortunately, Minerva stepped in and asked in a gentle voice, "Your aunt, Mister Evans?"

With her own experience dealing with Muggleborns and Half-Bloods in the same situation he had found himself, it had probably softened her attitude towards Evans—not that she was antagonistic toward him before—but neither had she been more polite than circumstances had required of her.

Evans turned to Minerva, his face softening just a bit. Dumbledore wondered if the Minerva of their world had been close to Evans or had some kind of relationship with him to have brought about such an unprovoked reaction from a man who had such tight control over his emotions.

"Yes, Professor." He even smiled at her. Granted it was a small smile, but it was there. And more than he had showed anyone else besides his own people. "I wasn't able to find anything about the magical side of the family, but I was able to find a relative in the non-magical world after some months spent searching.

"She was as surprised to see me as I was. Apparently she had no idea I even existed, since my mother—her younger sister—had never told her about the pregnancy or that she had even been in a relationship with anyone. To make a long story short, I found out that my mother _did_ attend some sort of mysterious boarding school when she was younger but my aunt couldn't remember the name of it, so I'm not sure whether she was sent to some magical school or not…."

He paused, as if unsure whether he wanted to continue but Granger took his hand in hers and that seemed to give him some measure of comfort since he continued.

"It turned out that she and my mother had been estranged for some years and that they had been at odds with each other since they were children; my aunt and she were step-sisters, you see, and that had caused some understandable friction between them from time to time. After one big argument, a year or two before I was born, they never saw or heard from each other again.

"Until I found her, that is." His lips twitched in what could perhaps be amusement, but Dumbledore didn't know him well enough to tell for sure. "…she was either a Muggleborn or had no magic herself, but regardless of which, here I am—a Half-Blood."

"But doesn't what you've told us prove that you _were_ born with the ability, then?" Sirius asked.

"Yes, well, this is the part that gets complicated and gives everyone a headache. I _could _have been born with this, just some trait passed down through the bloodline. But it turns out that I was cursed with powerful Dark magic when I was young and that that could have affected my magical core."

Dumbledore frowned.

"Even if you were subject to powerful magic, Dark or otherwise, as a child—that doesn't mean you'd develop a trait like parseltongue—unless, perhaps, there was some kind of transfer of power." His brows came together. "….but the power it would take…the receptivity of the vessel…the chance of failure…." He began mumbling to himself, lost in thought.

"Yes, exactly: a transfer of power is probably what happened, or at least, that's the most likely theory we've come up with, with what resources we have. According to diagnostic charms, it happened when I was just about a year and a half old. I was hit with the _Avada Kedavra_—"

Dumbledore held his hand up. "Forgive me, but did you say that you were hit with the Killing Curse?"

Evans looked at him with one arching brow, as if questioning his hearing.

"Yes, I was hit with the Killing Curse, as you call it and—"

"Impossible." He said. "Utterly impossible. No one has ever survived the Killing Curse. _No one_."

"Well I did. Cast a diagnostic charm yourself, right now—all of you if you want—and see for yourself."

Evans watched carefully as they cast them, but did not interfere, even when Riddle pointed his wand toward him: he didn't relax until Riddle placed it back by his side but neither did he attack him, for which Dumbledore was grateful.

When the results came back positive for the Killing Curse, Dumbledore was stunned.

"Remarkable," he said almost breathlessly in his excitement. "To have survived a curse designed specifically to kill—but who cast it on you?" He asked abruptly, realizing something. "You said it happened when you were but a year old…but who would want to curse a child?"

Evans looked at him with a sort of pitying look.

"Headmaster," he began formally and Dumbledore was immediately suspicious of what he would say next, for Evans had never once referred to him by his title—not without much scorn anyways. "Your world is fortunate, in that it only suffered one War in living memory. But in ours, the Dark Lord, Voldemort, arose after Grindelwald's defeat and reigned supreme."

He paused, eyes as distant as the memories his words invoked.

"He was the most vicious, most cunning, and most ingenious of them all. He rallied his followers around him with the cause of pureblood ideology; of "cleansing" the Wizarding World of "tainted" blood and "half-blood abominations.""

Granger snorted in contempt beside him.

"And with more and more Purebloods decreasing in number due to inbreeding—not that they'd ever admit that or know anything about how genetics actually work—and more and more Muggleborns and Half-Bloods being born, he was quite successful in gaining both interest and support. Whether they were only sympathetic to the cause he espoused, or were backing him financially or joined him on his campaigns across Britain, they were a solid foundation for his power base.

"I have to commend him, they were probably the best kind of followers he could have found to use for his own means; rant about his hatred of non-magicals and Half-Bloods, add a bit about Blood-Traitors in there, promise all the power in the world and he had a ready-made army, complete with bank accounts that were his for the taking.

"He would have to be a hypocrite though, if he had truly believed in all that rubbish. He was living proof, after all, that blood had nothing to do with power or intelligence or any of that other stuff some wizards believed came from keeping the bloodline 'pure'."

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked.

"Well, he was a Half-Blood just like me, so he'd basically have to hate himself for that to work."

"How did they not know that? How did _you_ know that, for that matter? I'd think this was something a Dark Lord who built his power on blood-purity would want to keep secret."

Evans smirked.

"Oh, he tried very hard to keep it secret but when you have an intelligence network that operates through both worlds and all Houses, not to mention, access to certain confidential records…." He trailed off, shrugging. "Well, there isn't a lot, I _didn't_ know."

"Anyways," he continued. "The Dark Lord Voldemort was the Big Bad and he was waging war on the Wizarding World—and he was _winning_. His enemies were few in number and most were either dead, in jail or on the run. There weren't a lot of people willing or able to stand up to him and live. But the few that could and did were ones he remembered. So when a prophecy was made that a child born "as the seventh month dies" would be the only one able to kill him for good, he had every child born on the 31st of July killed.

"_Every child_, including muggleborns, half-bloods, purebloods, muggles and squibs…no one was spared."

Evans tapped his fingers in a rhythmic _tap-tap_ _tap-tap-tap _against the table before him. "To be honest, I'm not sure how exactly he kept them subservient after that; some of the children he killed were the last heirs or only living male relatives of their bloodlines…but I suppose they had to be just as insane as Voldemort was by that time. And if they weren't loyal by their own will, he made sure they were."

"And you were one of the children targeted because of this prophecy?"

Dumbledore leaned forward.

"Yes," Evans said. "I was. And I survived somehow. Some say it was my mother's sacrifice, others that my surviving proved I was the prophesized one, and still others say that it was all a matter of luck. Honestly, I'm pretty sure I _was_ just lucky, but no one knows for sure. And anyhow," he continued with a grim smile, "I wasn't the only one."

"No?"

"_No_." Granger answered, her hair crackling with magic like that first time. "There were a few more, but over the years they were killed one by one until only Harry was left to face him." She slammed her hand down on the table suddenly. "Fool's Gold!" She hissed, a common Goblin curse. "If only he hadn't killed _every _child, the NMs might not have intervened so heavily; over a quarter of the children he killed had no magic at all to use against him—and still he murdered them! If he had thought, for one moment, the _impact _that would have on the War, I doubt he would have done so.

"Then again," she grimaced, "He never really thought about the consequences of his actions very much, with the power and influence he had, he hadn't had the need for quite a while, not since _he_ was a child. But he should have. One of those children was the child of the Prime Minister. And two were the heirs to very old, very wealthy Families—one of which had connections to the Underground!—and he stupidly incurred their wrath."

She shook her head in disgust.

"Yet, would the muggles—forgive me, NMs—would they have the capability to do any kind of actual damage to your Dark Lord?"

She snorted in contempt.

"That's exactly the kind of thinking that got him in so much trouble and left the rest of us to pay the price for it," she said. "But no, they couldn't do anything to him—not at first. Then he broke the Secrecy Laws, unleashed the Plague and let his Deatheaters go on killing sprees within their world. That was when the War changed; it wasn't just two sides fighting against each other anymore, now we had the NMs striking both of us on our safehouses, sanctuaries, supply lines, etc. They basically opened up a third front in the war and that wasn't even taking into account all the 'Dark Creatures'," Granger made sure to stress the words with a sarcastic tone, "who were hitting everybody and anything, hunting freely and without consequence with all the chaos.

"It helped that by the time the NMs had entered the War, their warfare had been tested and refined by Voldemort's actions—the murders, the killing sprees, the kidnappings—he basically made them into the killing machines they became. He pushed them too far, too fast. If he'd left them alone for the most part, they would have likely been content to ignore the strangeness of it all and not go looking into what was causing them. But he didn't care. And when they found out…"

Dumbledore found himself staring into eyes as ancient as his, despite the young face they were set in.

"Tell me, Dumbledore," she said with a casual tone, belying the dread that her words brought him as she seemingly changed the conversation, "do you know how the NMs won World War II? They had this wonderful new technology called nuclear power that allowed them to generate a huge amount of energy, but more importantly, it allowed them to create something called an atomic bomb. A weapon that could be sent halfway across the world with only the push of a button and completely destroy entire cities. America sent two such bombs to Japan, obliterating Hiroshima and Nagasaki in mere _seconds_—and that wasn't even the worst of it, oh no—you see, long after the ash clouds had evaporated and the rubble had been cleared, the people who had been near the epicenter of the blast—or had drunk contaminated water or simply _breathed_ the tainted air—suffered from radiation poisoning. Worse, some were infected with a lethal disease: Cancer.

"And children born there or whose mothers had been pregnant at the time of the blast suffered birth defects, were weak of body or mind, or suffered the rest of their lives from one medical complication or another. Few, if any, survived unscathed. And _that_ is what the Wizarding World faced because of Voldemort's actions."

"But surely their magic protected them?" Riddle asked, some strong emotion tightly leashed behind his teeth.

Dumbledore remembered then that Riddle had lived through the very muggle war they were speaking about—in a muggle orphanage, for Merlin's sake!—and would know exactly what kind of damage Granger was speaking about first hand. Granger looked to Riddle, as if she, too, had remembered that Riddle would know well what she spoke of, and shook her head with regret.

"For those who had a place that had been protected for generations upon generations with magic? Yes, but even they were not as protected as they thought. Bombs are meant to contain vast amounts of energy and even if the manors survived the blast, it could not protect the residents from the more common dangers; of consuming water from a contaminated source or breathing air filled thousands of tiny bacteria designed to survive in harsh environment, such as the epicenter of an atomic bomb, and enter their bodies to destroy their immune systems. Most magical beings have some protection against common NM diseases, but just the Native Americans who had no immunity against a disease they had never encountered before—so too, did the magical population have no defense against something they'd never suffered or even heard of, much less understood enough to produce a vaccine against.

"As for those who didn't even have the protection of the manors, they had to make do with fashioning some kind of protection on their own, often failing and dying as a result. If they were lucky, they would find a Sanctuary like Hogwarts. But like I said, even if the structure survived the assault, the people inside were still vulnerable, since they wouldn't know how to protect themselves properly or have any medical personnel who would know how like the NMs would."

There was silence for some moments, as the situation the young man and woman before them—and the ones under their leadership—had to have dealt with, to have survived and the world they had left behind became real. For Dumbledore, it was a testament of their strength and courage. For Sirius and Riddle, it was all a matter of being cunning enough to have survived. For Flitwick, it was another piece of the puzzle that was the Remnant revealed to him. For Minerva, it was more proof that despite all their bravado and barbed words, that they were hurting still.

"Anyway," she continued, "Harry was the only one left out of all those who had, somehow, survived. As a consequence, he was named the 'Boy-Who-Lived' by a certain journalist and it spread like Fiendfyre. He became the rallying point for the our side—the Light, the Neutrals, the Dark Creatures, and the House-Elves—basically anyone and anything who had a grudge against Voldemort or his Deatheaters; or felt that Harry would genuinely appreciate and accept them, rather than use them as infantry—mere cannon fodder; or wouldn't make them swear under threat of death or hold their families hostage. Harry was, at heart, everything Voldemort wasn't and that was his greatest strength."

She turned to Evans and looked upon him with pride.

"He may be rash and impatient at times, but he will never willingly, intentionally, place anyone in harm's way—not unless he had no choice or they knew full well what they were agreeing to. People may think he's rude and says things he shouldn't sometimes, but he has never once lied about his feelings or his thoughts. He may be prideful, but he is always careful not to let his pride cloud his judgment. He may have his prejudices against certain people, but never has he discriminated against a person because of their blood, status, class, or gender. Harry—"

"—is feeling a bit like he's in front of Fudge, about to receive an Order of Merlin, for doing nothing but surviving where others died," Evans finished. "I'm flattered, really, but like you said, I was ultimately just a symbol for them to rally behind. A banner they could wave and pretend to be united under." He snorted. "I may be a hell of a lot better for your health than _Voldemort_ to be following, but I'm not _better _than him; he had his weaknesses and I have mine, but we both led people who followed and believed in us for some reason for another, and whether we agree with their reasons why—their experiences are no more or less valid than ours."

"And you say _I'm_ soft."

"Well you are, except when you aren't. And anyway, you make me sound like some kind of bloody 'knight in shining armor'. Which I am _not_…but if I _was_," Evans kneeled on the floor before Granger and took her hands in his. "Then you, my Lady, my most beautiful One, is my Queen, to whom I swear eternal allegiance."

He bowed his head and kisser her hands.

Granger, for the first time that he had ever known her—which wasn't very long, admittedly—giggled.

She took his hands and pulled him back onto the couch with a huff, and kept pulling him until they were but an inch apart, resting their foreheads against each other. With a light blush dusting her cheeks, Granger exclaimed, "Oh, Harry—you and your theatrics!"

Evans just smirked.

Dumbledore would wonder later, in the privacy of his chambers, whether it was fate or calculated on the part of their guests—though how in the world they would be able to, he didn't know—that it was this light-hearted scene that Pomona was greeted by, rather than the terrible tales that Granger and Evans had been telling about the war earlier.

* * *

AN: was the explanation for how Evans is a parseltongue satisfy or was it weak, still? As you can tell, Evans is telling the story of how he came to be a parselmouth, but through his own words, he isn't certain about the cause. Then again, if 'Evans' is really 'Harry Potter', then he may just be having a hard time telling the story of his famous life without trying to reveal who he is, through half-truth and ommission.


	12. some truth

_Dumbledore would wonder later, in the privacy of his chambers, whether it was fate or calculated on the part of their guests—though how in the world they would be able to, he didn't know—that it was this light-hearted scene that Pomona was greeted by, rather than the terrible tales that Granger and Evans had told about the war earlier._

"Oh! Am I interrupting?" Professor Sprout asked, visibly flustered, looking at her and Harry, then away, and back again.

"No, no, come in, Pomona. We were just about finished, unfortunately. I am sorry to say that you missed the most important bits, but I'm sure Minerva won't mind filling you in, will you, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked, turning toward Professor McGonagall expectantly.

"Oh, of course I wouldn't mind! Come, Pomona, let us retire to my rooms and have a little chat, won't we? It's been far too long since we have simply _talked_, hasn't it?" Hermione watched as Professor McGonagall took Professor Sprout by the arms and swiftly led her out of the office. "No quick chats about who's the most troublesome lot coming into classes and such could hardly compare to an actual sit-down conversation with tea and biscuits could it?"

Hermione listened, amused, as she had never known Professor McGonagall to have ever been so chatty before. As her professor, McGonagall had been strict but fair, speaking verbosely only to teach and discipline her students; in War, she was a skilled soldier and leader, sparse with her words; and at the end, she had said nothing at all—but how could she, when her throat had been cut?.

"Miss Granger." Hermione turned back to Dumbledore. "You are free to leave but I ask if you may indulge an old man's curiosity for just a moment?"

Hermione felt her brow rise.

"Actually, we have a full night ahead of us and only cleared a certain amount of time for this meeting; we really must be going now."

Dumbledore's disappointment was clear.

"Oh, is that so? I apologize for keeping you as long as we did then. I only had two more questions for the night…" He trailed off, clearly hoping she would take pity on him and answer his questions.

She frowned, her mind already on the dozens of things she had to take care of before retiring for the night; the paperwork that was waiting for her attention, scheduled meetings with certain people that she could _not_ miss, other meetings within the Remnant that were just as important, and of course, she had a _very_ easily bored and mischievous son waiting for her to tuck him in. Who knows what foolish things the child would attempt to alleviate his boredom?

No, she couldn't waste any more time.

She shook her head and spoke in an apologetic but firm tone: "I'm sorry Headmaster but we just don't have the time. If you really have just two questions to ask, then please send me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. But I really must be going now. Good night."

She turned and headed for the open door, Harry right behind her and ignored Dumbledore's attempts to call her back. She really didn't have time for another "talk" with Dumbledore—he wasn't the only one who was busy—and _he_ certainly didn't have children of his own to tak care of, not personally.

* * *

"Miss Granger—"

But she had already stepped through and in seconds, the sound of her footsteps had faded away. Filius had already excused himself and Riddle had followed after him with a speculative eye, after a quick "If there's anything else…?" Only Sirius had stayed, his eyes as dark and unfathomable as the sea on a moonless night.

"Was there something you needed to speak to me about, Sirius?"

For some time, Sirius continued to stare at the ground, seemingly fascinated by the graying threads and fading color of the once-burgundy rug. Then he took a deep breath and let it out in one long, drawn-out shudder.

"Albus…" He started, swallowed back against the bile that had risen, and started again. "Albus, I read their packet, I listened to every little thing they say and I _know_—I _thought_ I knew—what it meant to face the Darkness, and how could I not with the family I come from? But Evans…and those…those _people_…"

He closed his eyes and Dumbledore knew what he had really wanted to say was "children."

"I didn't understand, not really, how bad it became in their world. The things that were in those packets—it was like reading some old Auror report, an investigation that'd suddenly gone wrong—it wasn't, wasn't _real_, you know? It's like a part of me kept expecting them to admit that this was all some elaborate joke or something, even while another part of me was putting together a file in my head of everything I knew about them, everything I could observe or was told. But it is real, isn't it?"

His fingers clutched his hair in a tight, painful grip. The Headmaster wasn't surprised to see the misery in those eyes. It seemed that the more they found out about the world that could have been, whenever Evans or any of the other three revealed even a little bit about themselves and what they had experienced—feeling so hopeless on how to react to it all, much less help these people, was the only appropriate—the only _possible_—response they could make.

Dumbledore considered the question carefully and answered, speaking in a measured tone, evaluating every word he spoke.

"It is real because they have lived it; they have survived a war that brought their world to their knees and they rose up, bloody and weary but triumphant, determined to make something of the ashes that surrounded them, of what was left. It is real because to deny them this, is to deny them the right to live when so many of the ones they loved and fought to protect must have died, and they must have wished—perhaps, are wishing even now—that they should have died in their stead…that it would be better to die than to live on. It is real, my dear boy—"

Dumbledore came forward to hold onto the shoulders of the man who sat before him, "Because they have known nothing else. This is their reality, their point of reference, the thing by which they measure all else against."

"Even so, I feel like I will never believe it's truly real and that I'll ask another stupid question of them. Maybe the next time, it might be too stupid to ignore. Maybe the next time, Evans won't be so forgiving.""

"Sirius—"

He hunched into himself, like he's like nothing more than to curl up under the covers and pretend the monsters didn't exist, like a child who didn't know better—didn't know that the real monsters weren't so easily fooled or recognized or defeated.

He asked in a hoarse voice, "But why…_why_ do they suffer even now, after their war is already done?" and knew it was another stupid question even as he asked but his mind just refused to cooperate with him right now. And he wanted to know. Because he just couldn't think—the answers weren't _coming_ to him—and he _needed _to know, even if he proved just how stupid he could be this night. He needed to know.

Dumbledore stared into Sirius' eyes with a sad, knowing look. _'Ah, Sirius. Sometimes I forget that despite your experience as an Auror and your countless duels, that you've never known what it means to truly fight for your life…War is nothing like what you think or could have ever imagined.'_

His lips curved in a gentle, tragic smile.

"Because the scars of war are not always there for the eyes to see; sometimes those wounds are so deep beneath the skin and the names of those they once cherished carved onto their most secret places, that the wounds may never heal, no matter how much time may pass. And sometimes those names may even be the names of their enemies, whose lives were so entwined with their own that they could never forget their face. Or the faces of the ones they killed, whether it was necessary or done in the name of vengeance. War is not a thing of glory, of honor, Sirius—it is _never_ about _honor_—it is about death and destruction. Nothing else."

And then he stood, clasped his hands behind his back and the maddening twinkle in his eyes he was so known for was back in his eyes once again.

"I think it's time to retire for the night, wouldn't you say, Sirius?"

"But, Headmaster—"

And when Sirius went back to calling him "Headmaster" rather than "Albus", Dumbledore knew he would be fine, given some time.

He let a bright grin overtake his face and by the baffled expression Sirius sported, knew it had worked to distract him.

"No, no, I must insist, Sirius. While you may be quite all right, an old man like me needs his rest or he won't be able to go about his way the next day. Why, I'd be falling over into my bowl of oatmeal at breakfast!"

He chuckled.

"Come now; let's get you back to your rooms, shall we?" Dumbledore said, herding the younger man from his rooms toward the door. "And don't you have some important test or some such thing tomorrow?" He cocked his head to the side.

All at once, Sirius' despondent manner disappeared and Dumbledore faced the disorganized, energetic young man who often times forgot about his own exam days and worked the whole night making them up. He would say something, but since the tests were always written well enough and on topic, and none of the students had so far complained about the tests—except to simply complain about having to take them—he let his professor do as he will.

"Bloody buggering hell! I can't believe I forgot! Forgive me, Headmaster, but I really must go—exam day and all that. Aaahhhh, where did I put those texts…?"

Dumbledore watched, amused, as Sirius ran all the way down the corridor, tripped, got back up and went skidding around the corner at a speed that would have him tripping—or worse—again. He shook his head and turned back to get some of his _own_ work done. He sighed at the pile of paperwork his Deputy Headmistress had gleefully returned to him and cringed at the memory of her wrath. He only hoped the poor boy didn't hit his head on the banister or something like that, 'else he would have to call back Madame Pompfrey, who was on vacation at the moment.

He shuddered, as he remembered what she had done to the last person who had caused her to return from her vacation early.

* * *

AN: I keep dropping hints about Hermione's son and very soon you'll finally get to meet him—and his namesake!—but first, a little more interaction between the Remnant, or the leaders at least, and the greater Hogwarts population. And sorry that this chapter is so short, it was gonna be longer but then I realized that I could put all that stuff later and since I already have the next chapter written already….well, I just really want to get this story moving.

Which is how I should be feeling about my other story, Book One: Struggle, but *shrugs* I don't have any enthusiasm for that one right now. Though I'm still working on it and I might be posting the next chapter for that story soon. I didn't realize exactly how much introspection I'd put into that story versus actual dialogue or action…well I did, but I wanted to go slow because it's my first story and sets the tone for the rest of the series…sorry for talking about another story, just thought I should say a little something about that, in case anyone came to this story through that one.

Also: I also wanted to take the time to respond to a review (currently the only one in its existence at this time) here, instead of in a PM for the very simple reason that this reviewer has no account on (it seems)—

_Skyz: I'm not sure why you don't have any reviews for this. It's quite brilliant. Just the scope of the world you've placed before Dumbledore and this new world is awesome. Everything the Remnant has dealt with has been told so very, very well, not too over done at all. You've created a world that I find intriguing and can't wait to see what comes next. I think you've done a great job with the characterization of everyone so far, they have recognizable traits, but you've fleshed them out so that they fit nicely in this AU. Different but not too OOC. You're keeping me on my toes about Evans. Is he Harry Potter? Did he tell the truth? I think he sprinkled in some truths, but he's a master manipulator. I love it! I really do enjoy this and have to thank you for writing this. I'm glad you've kept posting despite the lack of reviews. Thanks very much._

Skyz, I am glad that you are enjoying my story so far and I'm happy to have a reviewer with something constructive to say—no slight against you but offering simply praise, as wonderful as it is to receive, and dealing with trolls, the nuisances that they are—I always appreciate a reader who takes the time to ask me the hard questions and make sure the story is sound. I am happy to hear that you like the characterization, that was honestly the most worrisome aspect of writing this story for me because it's so far into the future (in comparison to my other story, Book One: Struggle, which is the first in the trilogy), their personalities already shaped by experience and reality. I was trying very hard to straddle the line between "different but not too OOC". As for Evans, he could very well be Harry Potter in disguise, having fun messing with Dumbledore or he could really be a guy named Evans who took the place of the canon-compliant Boy-Who-Lived. But yes, he mostly told the truth but there were definitely some half-truths in there and certain lies by default, due to omission. Thank you for reviewing, you really made my day.


	13. getting to know each other

Chapter Thirteen: getting to know each other

When Dumbledore stood to announce the news of the visitors' arrival, not one student dared interrupt him. He raised his hands in a gesture of silence, as if everyone was not holding their breath to hear him already.

"As you may all well know, yesterday we received into these halls, visitors from another world. You have already witnessed one being—a creature of magic, created purely from the will of a powerful witch—which spoke as their representative and now, you will bear witness to another. May I present to you, the Four Founders of the Remnant of Hogwarts: Hermione Granger, formerly of House Ravenclaw—"

He gestured to the side chamber, whose doors opened to reveal the aforementioned woman.

Granger wore an ankle-length dress of solid maple brown with threads of gold sewn through that sparkled like tiny jewels under the candlelight. She wore the same golden bangles on her wrists and the armband of blood-red and emerald. As she walked—marched more like, with that brisk stride of hers—Petunia could see glimpses of those steel-toed boots her people seemed to favor.

She came to a stand in front of the pedestal where Dumbledore usually stood, himself, to address the crowd and where she now looked over the curious faces before her with a bland expression.

"Draco Black-Malfoy, formerly of House Hufflepuff—" And several professors almost dropped their goblets of pumpkin juice, their heads jerking as they craned to see this anomaly before them; imagine that—a Malfoy or Black _not_ Sorted into Slytherin? "Emery Weasley, also of Hufflepuff—"

Two men, both tall and straight-backed, strode toward Granger. Stiff, they stood beside her and spoke not a word between themselves, the same bland expression on their faces.

Malfoy, silver hair glinting, wore conservative black robes, one smooth line of richly-carved brass buttons down his left side. His only accessories were an armband, similar to Granger's, of blue and gold and a plain ring set with some dark-colored stone. Weasley wore muggle-style pants and a worn-looking shirt with the design of a fiery dragon just about to take flight; a flat, silver choker, tight around his neck; and a fang hanging from his ear.

"And Harper Evans, formerly of House Slytherin."

Evans _glided_ out, as if he was literally slithering his way across the floor, eyes as hooded and dark as a rattlesnakes'. There was even a slight little twist of the hips that made it look as if he was swaying gently from side to side. He wore the same muggle-style pants as Weasley and a soft-looking sweater of dark green. His hair was tied back by a simple silver clasp, shaped in a vaguely serpentine manner. Like Granger and Malfoy, he, too, wore an armband—the same colors as Granger.

The only thing of interest—of idle speculation, of schoolyard gossip—was the necklace he wore, of a lily set on a delicate gold chain, glittering like fire: Petunia felt, as she did before upon seeing that necklace, that it was somehow familiar to her.

"Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore."

Granger bowed her head and motioned for her companions to do the same.

She spoke to Dumbledore but she turned to address them all.

"We are pleased to be here, very pleased, indeed. You have offered to us, the Remnant of Hogwarts, shelter and sustenance, and we are grateful. We have come from a world, torn by war and the Aftermath—and to know that we have this safe harbor, this brief respite—means more to my people than words can say. Though instinct and experience and even history will tell us our peace cannot last, here in this new world, we will gladly try. You have brought us to new beginnings and we shall never forget this."

There was some nervous twittering when she drew her wand, but she carefully kept the business end down.

"We honor you, Headmaster Dumbledore. We honor you."

Some kind of signal must have passed between them because all four made identical gestures—all sharp angles and fluid precision. Smoke, light and sparks spilled from their wands to form a picture. In between and in the air above them, their combined magic came together to create a miniaturized version of Hogwarts.

Weasley took a step back then, made a slight motion with his wand and a thick chain suddenly hung from the ceiling. As soon as it unraveled to reach the castle, Weasley made another motion and a dozen, more delicate chains shot out to clasp the castle securely.

"For four days and three nights, this castle will hang here for all to see and enjoy. After that, the chains will dissolve and you may do with it what you will. Accept this as our gift of thanks."

"Marvelous! Just Marvelous!" Dumbledore beamed at them with delight. "I am sure that both my students and staff will enjoy seeing this little castle during meal times. Now please, enjoy the dinner we have prepared in _your_ honor."

With a wave of his hands, dinner began and the students wasted no time eating, as even their guests were not enough to keep them from their meals.

Dumbledore motioned them to empty seats that popped up into existence beside him on both sides. Some of the others grumbled in annoyance but moved aside, including Petunia. They were all too used to the Headmaster springing sudden announcements on them to care too much about being forced to make space for their guests. Besides, Petunia knew that they were all eager to finally meet the Founders themselves, after that last Staff Meeting.

Granger and Malfoy chose the seats closest to Dumbledore. While Evans sat beside Granger with a faint smile, Weasley took his seat next to Malfoy with the barest hint of distaste.

It seemed that the Malfoy-Weasley family feud was a constant in this world or any other. That—or there was some other bitter history between them.

Petunia did not think their rivalry seemed to be as vicious as their fathers. Or so she had heard, not having had the opportunity to meet Lord Malfoy, though she knew the Weasley family fairly well, as their children were always getting into some kind of trouble and her class was no exception.

Malfoy was the first to eat: He sampled his simple dish of baked salmon, lightly seasoned by salt, with a delicate nibble. A flutter of his eyelashes—the only sign of his satisfaction—and only then did his companions began eating as well, as if they were waiting for his approval.

As Dumbledore enjoyed his own meal, he wondered if perhaps Malfoy was testing the food for poison—or simply tasting to see whether it was up to his standards.

'_Ah, well. If he was checking for poison, it would speak to the severity of their circumstances that they would not trust the food even here, a world away—and how far they have yet to go, to have a normal life once again.'_

Professor Riddle decided that as she was the most amenable so far, even through her dislike of him, despite her efforts at seeming nonchalant—and whatever had his counterpart done, besides lead the enemy forces against them to have engendered such a degree of it?—to ask some of the more personal questions that had been niggling at his mind in a public venue she could not so easily dismiss his questions.

"Miss Granger, I have been wondering since I first saw you and your companions as to the nature of the armbands that some of you wear; is there some kind of special significance to them? Do they denote a higher rank among your people or are they simply statements of fashion?"

He noticed, as always, that she had tensed slightly at his presence—a far cry from the ready stance Evans or Weasley took but troubling nonetheless—as she turned guarded eyes toward him.

He heavily doubted they had anything to do with "fashion", since he didn't think Granger cared much about such things or valued it highly but it was always good practice to ask anyway, just in case. Sometimes the least likely possibility _was_ the answer.

Petunia wasn't surprised that Tom was the first to question Granger.

Behind her hand, she smiled. He _would_ take the lead, wouldn't he? Riddle was usually content and seemed to prefer to let others do the questioning for him, but when it came to things that really interested him, it seemed that he didn't trust anybody but himself to do a good job of it. The curiosity gleaming in his eyes told her all she needed to know; something about the young woman or the people she presented had caught his interest, something beyond the very nature of their existence in the Professor's own world or the world they had left behind.

She turned to listen, as curious as he to know what the armbands were all about.

She expected the wry smile. She didn't expect the tender glance she sent Evans. Or the laugh, full of joy—the first _happy_ sound she had ever heard the young woman make. When Granger laid her free hand on the table and Evans took it in his, gently caressing her fingers, she thought she knew what Granger was about to say. The way Evans looked at her, no attempt to mask the emotions in his eyes, was answer enough. She thought, glancing at the faces of her fellow professors around her—some shocked, some delighted—that they were thinking along the same lines as she.

"The armbands we wear have nothing to do with fashion or rank; they're marks of unity—proof of a lasting bond between two people—or more. Sometimes two people aren't enough to satisfy a person, are they?" Granger winked mischievously. "They perform the same function as a wedding ring, really. The colors signify the individuals in the relationship and mark their Houses, to show that their lives are entwined and as important as the work they do."

Sirius cut in to ask a question of his own then.

"I understand the symbolism behind it but wouldn't it be better to get a ring than an armband?"

"Better?" She asked, the shadow of some emotion flickering behind her hazel eyes.

Malfoy slowly put down his fork and Weasley followed, his goblet of pumpkin juice set down just a bit hard on the table, both watching Granger carefully with trepidation in their eyes.

"Yes, of course," she said breathlessly, as if delighted by the conversation—and was anything but. "It might be _better_ but with no dwarves willing to mine the stones for any wizard and the non-magical world in chaos, it was a bit—_difficult_—to have one made, much less bought. Luxury items like that went for the asking price of a few thousand galleons—or thirty years of indentured servitude among the Guilds."

A sharp twist of her lips made for a cruel smile.

Malfoy winced.

"That's assuming, of course, that you're released from your Contract. If you're a good enough servant or pretty enough, they might be willing to risk a backlash on their magic just to keep you there for an extra twenty."

An ugly sound tore from her throat, something that sounded vaguely like laughter.

"There were some that said I was not good enough for Harry, that he could find someone _better_. Others even told me that _I_ could do better—as if I could not see what they were really doing—as if they were not secretly hoping that I would leave him and they could take my place, comforting him about the heartless _mudblood_ who threw him away."

Gasps of shock, sharp intakes of breath and the sudden clatter of cutlery were the only sounds at the Head Table in the charged silence after Granger referred to herself as a "mudblood".

Dumbledore realized that some of the students had noticed something was going on and cast a non-verbal privacy charm. They settled back in their seats with disgruntled expressions but already some of them were turning to their neighbors to gossip about what little they'd heard.

"Tell me, Professor Black, do you think that if he only looked hard enough or spent enough, that he could have found someone _better_?" She turned the full force of her disdain on Riddle.

Before Black to could even hope to answer, Evans answered her himself.

"Of course not!" Evans brought their hands up between them and clasped them tightly. "There is _no one_ better than you; no one who could match you in intelligence or strength or loyalty. There is no one else who could have stood by me in War and led an army to victory all on her own. There is no one else who could have _understood_ so much, knowing so little."

He kissed her hands. "Who else could have loved a monster like me?"

"Oh, Harry…" She shook her head sadly, her tone conveying that this argument was an old one. "You're not a monster. You never were. It was everyone else who forced you to lead because they were too much of a coward to do it themselves who're the real monsters. _They _were the ones who sold us out—who couldn't stand the reality of War—_they were the monsters._"

"The things I did—" He began to say, but she cut him off.

"Were necessary and if you hadn't done them, others would have—_I_ would have."

"Never," he hissed immediately. "You should never have had to make those kinds of choices."

"Neither should you have." She countered. He opened his mouth to deny it. "No, Harry. Not even you."

In their own little world, Granger and Evans didn't realize—or care—that they were attracting attention, so focused was they on each other.

Malfoy snorted in disgust and Weasley muttered "damn lovebirds" but they didn't interfere otherwise.

He stared at her for a few minutes until he nodded. "I guess we'll have to agree to disagree then." Then he chuckled amusedly and laid a chaste kiss on her cheek. "I was trying to make _you_ feel better and here you are reassuring me. You're amazing, Hermione. Beautiful. Strong. And _mine._"

His kisses and the sheer possessiveness of his words left her blushing adorably.

Then he turned to Sirius.

"Choose your words carefully, Black." Evans locked eyes with Sirius. "I knew you for a good man back in our world even with your ridiculous prejudices and insanity, but if you insult my Bonded, I will rend you into a thousand bloody pieces." A touch of something decidedly inhuman looked out from his eyes. "You may evade my wand or my blade, though I find it highly unlikely, but you should know that I was best known for the fangs I possess."

He opened his mouth wide to reveal the two large front teeth—_fangs_—that dropped down, glistening with dark fluid.

'_Did he alter his face surgically?' _Dumbledore considered. _'Or is it just a very good cosmetic spell?'_

"And there are poisons from my world that don't yet or will ever exist in this one, I'm sure. How certain are you that you would want to take the chance to find out whether your potions skills or diagnostic spells would ever find them?"

Evans stared with hunger in his eyes—Dumbledore wasn't sure if he was feigning or if he meant it and if he did, whether it was a very literal hunger that he saw there—and waited for the answer. Dumbledore was curious to see how Sirius would be able to get himself out of this situation. He would step in if things got any more tense but since neither Weasley nor Black looked the least bit concerned or worried—not on Sirius' behalf, at least—he would just watch for now.

Sirius' face had shuttered—one of the ways in which he masked his emotions—and spoke each word carefully. "I apologize for having offended you, Lady Granger. I was careless and it didn't occur to me that you didn't get a ring, not because you did not desire onebut because you _could not_. I never realized how war could change even the most common tasks into a trial."

He gave a deep bow, though he was sitting down and it should have looked awkward but as always, Sirius could make most things look good if he wanted to. Perhaps, some it was because of the way he was raised by his pureblood-obsessed mother; perhaps some of it was natural. Regardless, the respect he conveyed with that one gesture was good enough, it seemed, to somewhat appease Granger and, in turn, Evans.

Both nodded stiffly in return but it appeared they were no longer truly angry.

"I have no idea why anyone would ever suggest that you are not enough for Evans—I know nothing of your history or what it means to grow up in war—but for what it's worth, and I understand it might not mean very much coming from me, I cannot see any fault in neither your nature nor your appearance to warrant such a thing."

He paused, as if he didn't know quite how to phrase his next words.

"Is there any other topic from which we should avoid, so as not to offend?"

Evans did not look away from Sirius but he turned his head to the side now to hear her response. His eyes, Dumbledore saw, had somehow changed from his normal dark brown to a pale golden color. _'_Was_ it normal or just another possible glamour?' _He thought. They were also slit, like a snake's. Granger showed no signs of surprise or revulsion, though some of the teachers who had seen them had recoiled back, as if Evans would strike them. Dumbledore considered what he knew of Evan's nature so far and the actions he had taken, noting the ready stance and the eager expression on his face.

Perhaps he might have, if they had made any threatening moves towards the young woman beside him.

"Unfortunately, I will have to warn you as you ask them; some things are obvious things to avoid asking about, such as the dead and the ones left behind, but others are things most people don't even think about consciously avoiding anymore, they simply _do_."

She sighed and relaxed her posture. Evans turned all the way back around to look at her and ignored Sirius, as if now that the matter had been deal with, he was of no more importance to him. Sirius twitched but made no other sign that he was annoyed by the clear dismissal.

Dumbledore knew how hard that was for a man like Sirius who was so used to having a lot of attention on him. But he wasn't made Head of Slytherin House for no good reason, despite being sorted into Gryffindor; he knew that any sign of displeasure now would be seen as a threat by Evans. Evans' threats of poison were to be feared—it was more than possible that some of the poisons he carried might not have an antidote in this world, either because it hadn't been invented yet or because there _was_ no cure.

"It's become instinctual." She pulled her hands, still clasped to Evans', into her lap. "As long as you know that I may not be willing or able to answer every question, you may ask them. I'll apologize in advance now for being 'offended' later."

She added: "You also need not refer to me as 'Lady Granger'. Miss Granger is just fine. We don't use titles very much and don't see any point in them."

"Well then! Would it be quite rude of me to ask about that curious scar on your abdomen or is that much too personal a thing to ask, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked, eager to move on.

"I don't mind at all. A little thing like that is just another battle scar."

Dumbledore didn't know how you could call something that had to have inflicted massive pain 'just another battle scar', but perhaps among all the other wounds she'd received, it was just that: nothing compared to other, worse scars he hadn't seen yet.

"In the first battle within the castle, Nagini, Voldemort's pet snake, managed to bite through my armor—we were still using our school robes then, only spelled to counter simple curses and hexes—and it wasn't enough."

"It must have been painful," He commented.

Granger shrugged easily.

"There are worse things to suffer through than being bitten by a snake, even a snake as deadly or as insane as her master as she was."

Professor McGonagall asked, "Such as?"

Her tone implied there couldn't _possibly_ be anything worse.

Evans answered for her.

"Lots of things: being cursed to an endless number of _Crucio_; being raped then killed." He paused, and then continued in a thoughtful tone, "Being killed _then_ raped—that's always a nasty one. Sometimes they brought you back just to do it all over again. Hell, some of them _liked _that sort of thing and with the War going on, nobody had the time or cared very much to guard every grave across England to protect the dignity of someone's loved ones—"

"Sick bastards, the lot of them." Weasley interrupted to say.

Evans chuckled.

"They would have said the same things about us, for some of the things we did."

Weasley snorted.

"Yeah, well, 'least _we_ never fucked the dead."

"What about Greengrass and her Family?" Evans pointed out.

Weasley rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Mate, they're _vampires_. Long as they can think for themselves, I don't care if they sleep in coffins. They _know _what's going on—that's the important part—and you know it." He added, gazing at Evans with a knowing look.

Evans brushed it all aside, as if Weasley's words were nothing but some bothersome flies and continued.

"_Anyway_, as I was saying there are loads of things worse than being gutted by Nagini. You could be burned alive—oh, did I forget to mention that once the non-magical world realized what was going on, they got _really_ angry and started burning any magical being they could get their hands on…?"

"You forgot to mention that part." Sirius replied, just the littlest bit snide.

Evans looked at him as if just now remembering that Sirius had only moments ago inadvertently upset his 'Bonded', but a firm "_Harry_" from Granger had him waving his hands dismissively.

"You could be sold into slavery and be bound to some Family like house elves."

"Or transfigured into furniture and left out for the Rogues." Weasley chimed in. When everyone else but the four of them and Dumbledore continued staring in confusion, he looked at Malfoy, as if asking permission to explain about it. Malfoy pursed his lips—

"Is this one of those things you don't ask about?" Sirius asked when he saw Malfoy's pained expression.

"Yes, but since I know you'll all ask Dumbledore—"

"_Headmaster Dumbledore_—"

"Since I know you'll all ask _Dumbledore_," he repeated, taking special care to tip his head the slightest bit toward Minerva—acknowledging her words but ignoring them completely, "I'll explain. I'd rather you hear it from me and not some sanitized version just because the old man there doesn't want to 'traumatize' someone. Or leave it for Weasley to tell and Weasley can't explain _shite_."

Malfoy likewise ignored Minerva's scandalous, "_Language!_", scoffing at Weasley's mutter of: "_Poncy git."_

"Rogues," he began, "were once men who served the Dark Lord. They loved Him and feared Him and believed in Him—even when he sacrificed their Families, their beloved heirs—the most important things to a Pureblood. Or were. But that was before His darkness had consumed their hearts and all they thought of was Him."

Malfoy spoke in a hushed, 'mysterious' voice, as if he was telling a bedtime story to an eager child and indeed, it might have been so, as Dumbledore watched in amusement as the men and women around him listened to Malfoy with rapt attention. He had only begun but they were already spellbound.

Dumbledore considered briefly whether that was due to the story itself or the young man who was telling it.

"They breathed His name in their waking hours and thought of kneeling before His feet even in their dreams. When He called them to battle, like the ocean tides, they rushed toward Him. They murdered and raped and reveled in His name. They believed that He would never fall. But He did."

He paused then, as if their disbelief and anguish was his own.

Perhaps they were, thought Dumbledore. He remembered something about the Aftermath…His memory stirred and a line came to him then: _Who were once Enemies or tolerated only for their skills became close Allies, even Family, as basic needs for survival overcame old feuds and enmity._

"Slain by the blade of His Enemy, He lay dying on the battlefield. His Enemies rejoiced and celebrated His fall, but they, too would suffer as His followers suffered. For upon His death, the Mark they took in his name—branded upon their very souls—swallowed them whole. Their minds were lost and Hunger stirred within them. They were Wizard no longer but creatures of magic who hunted, ever searching to satisfy the Hunger which now ruled them.

"But they would never be satisfied, for the only thing which could sate them was the sound of their Master's voice—the feel of His Dark magic—but he would never return. His Enemies had seen to that; they had burned the empty shell which had once housed His darkness and scattered the ashes to the winds. And so they wandered—cursed for eternity to walk upon the Earth for a peace that would never be theirs.

"And _that_ is a Rogue."

"Interesting story." Professor Kettleburn, who taught Care of Magical Creatures, commented.

Malfoy gave a disdainful sniff.

"It is _not_ a story."

"Sounds like one to me." Professor Kettleburn retorted.

"Good for you. If there was an actual Rogue here and now, I'm sure you'd be running screaming for the hills." Malfoy sneered.

"I'm just as sure that you'd be the one running. By the way, there are no hills around Hogwarts."

Malfoy bristled, incensed and Weasley sighed in irritation, stepping in before their disagreement could turn into an argument. Dumbledore was glad; he had never seen a Malfoy step back from a direct challenge and _not_ meet it, and he really didn't want to deal with another fight so soon after the 'disagreement' between Evans and Sirius.

"He's right, you know," Weasley said. "No matter how he's told it, Rogues really _are_ blood-thirsty creatures that'll eat you as much as beat you to death. Or 'mate' with you, if they're not feeling particularly hungry." He shuddered, as if that was worse than being eaten alive or beaten bloody. Dumbledore glanced at the identical horrified expressions on all four of them. It probably was.

"Right," said Evans. "So those are a few of the many, many things that are worse than being bitten by a snake. Any more questions?"


End file.
